Pantogogue
by BC
Summary: Slash SSHP. Severus' POV: Potter is changing in front of my eyes, gaining a disconcerting resemblance to Tom Riddle. As usual, it falls to me to save the brat... for the price of 'only' my soul.
1. Family and Friends

Disclaimers:

JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and all that goes with him. Also, I am _not_ JK Rowling.

I own the poem.

Friedrich Nietzsche does not own much currently, but he was the one to write _Human, All Too Human_.

There was, as far as I know, only one Rosetta Stone, and it was found by Captain Pierre-François Bouchard and deciphered by Jean-François Champollion.

I never was to Whipsnade Zoo and have no idea if they have parrots and swamp dragons. Honestly.

I apologise to anyone whose ideas were stolen unconsciously, or whom I forgot about.

A/N: This is very different from _And yet…_ I don't see anything but angst that could drive Harry into Severus's arms. Also, it can be read on its own and I **recommend** to those who have not read _And yet…_ to **start with this one**, especially if you don't want to have the ending spoiled.  
And since I'm already ranting, I want to get this off my chest: writing this story felt like burning icons you have been praying to since you could string words together. It was terribly, terribly difficult. I had to quite forcefully defend a point of view I absolutely disagree with. I actually like Harry, and I realised half-way through the second chapter that I made a big mistake trying to maintain the first person POV – I had to remind myself after every other sentence that Severus would not do that because he _hates_ Harry, would not say that because he _hates_ Harry, would not agree to that because he thinks Harry is an idiot… murder.  
Er… well… I'll just stop ranting _now_.

So, to say something that actually does have a **point**… Pantogogue is unbeta'd but completed, only waiting to be posted. It has 32 chapters altogether, excluding the side-story _Metamorphosis at Dawn_, which is also completed and will be posted chronologically where it belongs, starting around chapter 20, 'The Martyr'.

Thus read, enjoy and send lots and lots of feedback.

Brynn

Warnings: slash, chan, sexual situations, strong language, violence, suicidal tendencies, character death, attempted non-con, alcoholism, Dumbledore bashing, Lupin bashing, light McGonagall bashing (it _is_ Sev's POV);

Err… don't get scared. Really. It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. Just a bit of darker… bonding.

Pantogogue 

- (n) a medicine once believed capable of purging away all morbid humours

Foreword 

Dear Sirius,

I have mourned you, but I have to ask your forgiveness, nevertheless – I cannot bring myself to feel the guilt I should feel. Somehow…

I'm not explaining myself well. There are points in anyone's life, when they have something they want to share – be it success in sport, good grades, or _just_ a new friendship – and they want someone to appreciate it and be proud of them. In those instances most people my age turn to their parents or, in the less fortunate cases, their guardians. At one point in time you were that person for me, but now I have no one to make proud of me, so I sort of stopped trying. It would help if I believed my parents were watching over me, _but_…

It's just my bloody luck that I don't believe in afterlife (which makes it all the more ridiculous and insane that I'm writing an _un_addressed letter inscribed with your name). During the ten years since my parents died until I met Hagrid, I prayed to every single god I've ever heard of to get me out of that place. They never did, so I stopped believing. It seems rather ironic to me that in the end it was (according to the Bible, at least) Satan who saved me… And as a payment he gets to keep my soul.

Which works for me, as I – apparently – _don't believe in afterlife_. Isn't life simple when you have your priorities straight? Well, I reckon nowhere near as simple as death (assuming I _am_ right and there _is_ no afterlife), but I wouldn't know about that, would I? So I guess I'll keep muddling my way through it, and deliver as much of the evil toadies as I can before I bite it.

It helps that I don't care anymore.

In resignation your Godson, Harry

Family and Friends 

"We were in luck," I hear the Headmaster say, as I walk up to the hospital wing with a case of freshly brewed potions in my arms – the flasks are too fragile to levitate. What does Dumbledore do in the hospital wing on this day at this time? "Firenze was with Sibyll when she gave us the prophecy, and we were fast enough to avert a catastrophe," the old wizard explains to someone, presumably Pomfrey.

"I'm fine!" whines a disturbingly familiar voice, and my knuckles – gripping the handles of the casket – go white. I want to hit my head on the nearest wall, or, yet better, turn around and stalk back to the dungeons, but I refuse to let this… _person'_s presence dissuade me from my goal. I grit my teeth and walk on towards the ajar door.

"Sir… Ma'am… I really _am_ fine!" Sure. As though the brat ever said the truth. Although, it is a bit strange of him not to exploit whatever ails him to get some pity. "Look, he did it before, I survived without medical attention. I'll survive now."

"When was this?" hisses Pomfrey, and the irrational yearning to skulk back to my quarters returns upon hearing the tone of her voice.

"In June… in the Ministry," replies a quiet, properly cowed voice. I halt at the door, unwilling to interrupt just yet – better to let the medi-witch rage at Dumbledore and Potter. Couldn't happen to nicer people, really.

"Albus Dumbledore!" she yells, and I cringe even out of the reach of her fury. "Are you telling me that you left a student with a severe trauma without checking in here-"

"There were more important matters to solve at the time, Poppy-" Dumbledore tries to placate, but, as well as I know Pomfrey, it was the incorrect answer. I am proved right a moment later.

"What is more important than the health of your students?!"

"Are you questioning my leading of this school, Poppy?" the Headmaster asks icily. I know that tone. It's like a bucket of cold water being emptied on your head. It shocks the recipient into stupor – very few expect the kindly old man to be made of steel somewhere under the surface. But he is.

I enter in the following silence, ignore the group and cross the room straight to the cupboard.

"Good afternoon, Severus," Pomfrey says pointedly. I nod to the group instead of greeting, and let her seethe all she wants to. So far I was lucky and avoided having to look at the _poor_, undoubtedly temporarily _crippled_ Boy Wonder, and I would very much like to keep it that way.

"Look," Potter interjects, and I have the most disturbing idea how he is the voice of reason in their little dispute, which is, frankly, inconceivable, "just give me whatever you use to treat the after-effects of the Cruciatus." I feel my back straighten independently of my will. I don't know if it's the memories, or just hearing the name of the curse, but it gives me shiver. Against my will I take a half-step to the left, and inconspicuously look at Potter.

He is sitting on the edge of a bed, trying to suppress small tremors that I know all too well and he would not be able to fake if he tried. Whatever happened to him, I­…

…am sure it was his fault. I shake myself into a semblance of sanity and observe the boy closer. His hair is worse than ever, a tangled mess with the exception of the fringe that hangs limply, semi-covering his face. It casts shadows which, I am sure, accentuate rather than create the dark circles under his eyes. His Adam's apple is sticking out, and I could count the tendons in his neck from here. So… lack of appetite and insomnia.

Depression.

Oh, the poor, poor Golden Boy. Who would have expected such a tragedy? My attention, however, is drawn back to the tremors, which, frankly, _are_ disturbing. Why does Potter ask for after-Cruciatus treatment? The obvious conclusion is… well, obvious, but if that were the case, wouldn't he be given that treatment immediately, without the need for questioning?

Although, as far as I know, he did not get that particular treatment last time he was under Cruciatus. The incompetence of the Hogwarts staff – especially concerning Potter – is ever astounding.

Pomfrey storms across the room in a huff; I slide out of her way to allow her to pick what she needs from the cupboard. Albus questions.

"Why would you ask for that, Harry?"

The look Potter gives him is priceless. I am glad my face displays only the range of emotions from displeased to enraged, but, Merlin, the brat's innate expressiveness allows him to put an entire rant about the old coots incapability, senility and general folly into a single stare in an impressive fashion. Though I would strangle him if he looked like that at me… right now I'm torn between snapping at him, and – silently, mind you – appreciating the putdown Dumbledore has been dealt. As far as I'm concerned, he deserves it… once in a while.

"Because this felt similar, just about ten times worse," Potter states deadly.

My first instinct is to dismiss his words as more attention-seeking, but the way the statement was delivered prevents me from doing so. He _has_ been under Cruciatus – _the Dark Lord's Cruciatus_, which is a level of pain on its own – before. I am inclined to believe that, while he no doubt exaggerates, the pain of whatever happened to him today might have been worse than the Unforgivable. In that case I am glad I never experienced it. Were it anyone but Potter, I would feel guilty that a student – a _child_ – had to suffer such pain.

"Harry-"

"Whatever it is, Headmaster, I don't want to hear it." The deadliness creeps from the boy's voice into his expression, and I hold my tongue from issuing a biting retort, because this is Dumbledore's problem to deal with – and I dearly wish it on him. I refuse to delude myself – Dumbledore made many really bad choices, and some of them even regarding his pet Gryffindor. He should owe up to them… on the other hand, Potter is a mere student and this is a show of disrespect that goes nearly unparalleled… it is a dilemma.

I remain silent.

"If you insist," Potter says, "give me the potion, and then let me go. Or bind me to the bed. Or shackle me to the wall. Whatever you think is the _wisest_ precaution that might enable me to survive – and helps you _redeem_ everyone else."

While the imagery is rather amusing, the look in Potter's eyes expresses clearly that he means those words as he said them… but why would _anyone_ (even Potter) expect something like that from the Headmaster?!

I flee the room (in a dignified way, of course) as soon as possible.

x

I enter most of these meetings half a step behind Dumbledore, simply because they are usually called together to discuss information I have brought straight from the Dark Lord. In those cases Dumbledore is the second to last to enter the room – me being the last. Therefore it is an unusual feeling to walk into an almost vacant chamber and survey the empty rows of chairs. For a moment I am faced with a rather unusual decision; I actually contemplate sitting in a back row, but in the end settle for haunting a comfortable-looking shadowed nook. I'm fairly sure that the Headmaster had not counted with me sitting – since I never do so – and woe be me should I attempt to steal another's rightful place – I'd be called the Death Eater I am and promptly turned over to the Ministry… The strange thing is, though, that I am not used to sitting because there never is place left for me.

I wonder, is he doing this on purpose? To remind me of something? To make me feel yet more unwelcome in the Light Club?

Why is it then that Fawkes prefers my company to most of the ingrates' that will be filling these seats in the next few minutes?

"See Snape?" comes a disdainful voice from a middle-aged couple sitting down on the opposite side of the room – as far away as possible from me. McKinnons. "Lurking in the corner like a bat… small wonder he's not upside down!"

Some people can graduate, find a job, found a family, bring up their children and spoil their grandchildren, and you still only have to look at them to see that they were – _are_ – Gryffindors. I think that the seven-year-long exposure to unhealthy amount of red in their Tower makes them – at least those who were not before – blind. Add a bit of gold, and they are also true, righteous and pure. And, unfortunately, their colours tend to rub off on the monsters they spawn.

A moment later one of the greens enters. He is on the small side, and his clothes – Muggle style – are way too big for him. For some unfathomable reason he wears a kerchief on his head. He looks around uncertainly – it is probably his first time to a full-scale meeting – and much to my surprise takes a position mirroring mine. He moves slowly, as though there were weights on his hands and feet, past all the chairs to the niche, fits against the wall, and it is as though he wasn't there… I only see him when I know what to look for.

Other two greens follow, crossing the room and settling down in the first row, and then the main body of the Order starts trickling in, and no one notices either me or the young man opposites.

For a while I entertain myself watching him watch the in-comers, but he shows no reaction to anyone and I give it up. The room is full now, with wizards and witches of all ages (seventeen and up), Houses, skin-colours, blood-purity levels and persuasions. Lupin enters, uncertain on his feet and unhealthily grey, held upright by Jones on his right side and prodded by Fletcher behind him, who takes unhealthy pleasure in his position.

These people sicken me. Paradoxically, I am helping to save the world for them.

"Remus! You made it!" yells an over-exuberant woman that after a few moments of concentration changes her shape into something recognisable, and thus outs herself as Nymphadora Tonks. I look away from them, but, unfortunately, nothing of any interest to me is happening. The Dark Lord has one good idea – being the first one in every meeting; the incoming Death Eaters do not dare linger or speak up, and thus I am not forced to waste half an hour of my life suffering the witnessing of _old pals'_ re-union.

Then, _finally_, the Headmaster walks in, and the room falls relatively silent. My eyes stray to the opposite niche, and I notice that whoever it is who occupies it does not keep his eyes open, lest they would shine from the shadows. Strange. I would not have expected such measures from anyone in the Order… I skim the 'audience', and it hits me that there is _no_ empty chair – he was not counted with either. He knew about the meeting, apparently, but I hazard a guess that he was not invited. I will have to keep an eye on him.

"Good afternoon, Order," Dumbledore says, and the crowd takes the last word as an _order_ instead of an address, though it was meant to be both. They fall silent, hanging on his lips. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice – I am afraid I bear grave news. Harry Potter's family was… _slaughtered_ today."

The crowd – predictably – has a lot to say, but nothing stands out from the general hum. Lupin looks even paler and attempts to stand up, but whoever sits on his other side stops him. I shiver. It is the second time in my life that I feel pity for Potter. Not even he deserved to have his relatives (no matter how hateful) _executed_ in front of himself and then suffer an equivalent of an Unforgivable. If he had not been depressed before, it is certain that he is now. Perfect. The Saviour is going Dark… Now that little project blew up in Dumbledore's face quite spectacularly.

"Where's Potter?" shouts Moody, and expectant silence falls. Dumbledore lowers his head for a moment, sighs, and then looks up.

"He is currently in the hospital wing. He sustained no serious injuries, but Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping him there until tomorrow." I surprise myself by having no internal remark to add to that, except on doubting the venerable Headmaster's word on the seriousness of the Golden Boy's state. I was under the impression that he _had_ suffered. "I allowed Mr Potter to remain within Hogwarts while he recuperates from the trauma." Ah, here Dumbledore denies his words – no _serious_ injuries suddenly become trauma.

Molly Weasley apparently catches on, or simply has a different idea.

"Albus, you cannot possibly leave the boy here, alone, to deal with the tragedy on his own…" Tragedy? I have an inkling of how Potter's relations treated him, and I am slightly surprised that he is not laughing his empty head off. But that would be so _unbecoming_ for a Gryffindor. Come to think of it, a _depression_ is also rather unbecoming for him. He is supposed to have the emotional range of a teaspoon. "Let him come to the Burrow," Molly pleads, "we would all love for him to stay. We have as good as adopted him-"

"I am afraid it is not safe, Molly," Dumbledore replies gravely. "I have considered sending him to Grimmauld Place with Remus, but keeping him at Hogwarts seems the better choice." I wonder – just for the sake of exercising my mind, naturally – what Potter had to say to that. "With a great luck today, we were able to prevent other casualties, rescue Mr Potter, and gain information on Voldemort's next attack-" he pauses, so that those flinching and exclaiming at the name get a hold of themselves, and then lets the bombshell drop.

"He will strike here."

x

Nearly two hours of intense arguing later I am nursing a headache and the desire to get the Hell out of here. It is finally granted after the joint forces of nigh half of the Order _convince_ the Headmaster to keep Potter safe in the Headquarters, nicely away from all the war frenzy. I do not much care – the boy will get into trouble either way, it is only a question of where he can do more damage. I am inclined to believe that leaving him in Headquarters drugged, Stunned, bound to bed and Silenced would be the safest option, but nobody (save possibly – _ironically_ – Moody) is likely to listen to that opinion.

I am the _second_ one to escape the room, much to my surprise – until I realise who the one who escaped before me is. The mystery lurker of the opposite niche, in all his five feet of height and several acres of clothes.

"Fleeing already? You might miss the catastrophe."

"The peripetia was more than I could handle, thanks," he replies in a suspiciously quiet voice, and I am startled by the sophisticated sarcasm. Although I only see him from behind, since he refuses to face me, it is obvious that he is but a boy. From this distance I see that the clothes were not originally his, just as the kerchief was not – at least I do not think any teenager with a shred of dignity would pick this kind of flowery pattern, not to speak about the fact that he is male. At least he _looks and sounds_ male.

I aim my wand at him, but, as he does not see it, he walks on.

"Halt," I command, and his steps falter. "Who are you, and how did you know about the meeting?"

He half-turns, and I see that he is also holding his wand. A sapling like that does not intimidate me at all and I am not wary of confrontation, but the fact that he infiltrated the Order despite the security worries me.

"Ah, thank you for complimenting my disguise, Professor. My resources were rather limited and, see, I managed to get in and get out without using a spot of magic to hide my identity."

I lift my wand, trying to control my temper lest I blast him to pieces.

"You don't want to be doing that," he mocks, and my grip on the handle tightens, "Madam Pomfrey _hates_ her patients being cursed."

He finally faces me, giving up on the attempt to escape, and I find myself staring into a pair of unfocused green eyes. He pulls his glasses out of one of numerous pockets of the overlarge trousers and puts them on.

"Do you recognise me now?" he asks cheekily.

"Potter!" I grit my teeth, but fail to prevent a burst of red sparks from the tip of my wand. I simply cannot seem to control myself in the presence of this ingrate. He feels himself above mortals, just like the Dark Lord, but the Dark Lord at least has power to enforce that impression. Potter is but a snotty little idiot who gets away with _anything_.

"Who, pray tell, invited you to an Order meeting?" I force out. He _shrugs_. Gods, it is such a pity that the Headmaster would kill me if I wrung his neck.

"No one. But the security is somewhat lacking, isn't it?" he says offhandedly, and the grimace of expression I wear distorts further. I hate that he – the tragic simpleton – is right. If _he_ could just saunter into the room, make himself comfortable and listen, and all that without using magic at all, it sounds alarms. Someone seriously neglected something.

Before I can counter that proclamation with something suitably chastising for this incredible idyss, he lets his wand down, pulls off the hideous kerchief, and runs a hand through his hair. "If Dumbledore doesn't give me the information I need, I have to get it myself."

Oh, so little Boy-saviour feels neglected, that is it. He is not told enough, so he has to disregard completely all the rules and all his instructions, and make another mess to land himself in.

"The Order is doing everything in their power to protect you-"

"Oh, and it worked _so_ well so far… I am overwhelmed," he spits with typical arrogance. "Who do _you_ guess will be the first to figure out that with a bit of a positive reinforcement _I_ would be the best one to protect myself?" He cannot be serious? After what happened a month ago, one would think that _his Highness_ admits at least that he _does_ need protection. But, _no_, he does _not_.

"You, the totally inept-"

"At Occlumency?" he cuts in before I get into a nice stress-relieving rant. Merlin, how I hate this red-and-gold monster with all his self-assuredness and cockiness and… "Perhaps." He shrugs. "Note that I said '_positive_ reinforcement'." He dares sneer at me. "Consistent instruction and respect towards me as a person would also not be superfluous." He seems to have read a dictionary over his stay with his relatives. While it does him a world of good, it is disconcerting to hear something half-way intelligent-sounding come out of his mouth. "Though I don't believe you capable of either, Professor, so do not trouble your stressed mind over it. Forget that you saw me, and let me at least die on my own terms when I was forced to live on others'."

He turns away from me, completely ignoring the fact that my wand is still aimed at him, and sets out on his way down the corridor. It strikes me quite suddenly that no one came out after us, but then I realise that we are two turns from the entrance to the chamber where the meeting was held in a direction to the hospital wing rather than the Entrance Hall where the members would be going.

"Potter, your attitude is… nauseating." Poor misunderstood Boy Who Lived. No one loves him, no one dotes on him, no one pities him… So he makes it up to himself. As much in love with himself as his father used to be.

"Wow," he replies dispassionately. I curse myself as I realise that I am actually following him instead of detaining him. "That coming from you, sir… perhaps you would remember a self-conscious little eleven-year-old that awaited his first ever touch with Potions with bated breath… only to be humiliated by a hateful bitter man, with no understanding whatsoever of what he had done to deserve such hatred…" What a tragic picture he paints… so incredibly biased. He has the nerve to accuse _me_?

I cast a Petrificus, but he side-steps it easily, despite not having looked.

"That was low, sir. What had the innocent first-year done to you that you despised him so much? Yanked your hair when he was a year old? Because I cannot remember one instance of having offended you before I started Hogwarts."

"I do not have the capacity for pitying you."

"Of course not; you use up all your pity on yourself," he shoots back, and it makes my blood boil simply because it is about the same thing I have mentally accused him of less than a minute ago. "Besides," he adds, "I don't want your pity. I just wanted to see whether your conscience was truly atrophied." I cannot be sure, but I think I hear a smirk in his – otherwise rather tired – voice.

"And what astonishing discovery have you made?" I say, deciding that it is simply not worth the effort to track him throughout the entire castle when I can just go back and report all to Dumbledore. He will deal with it, I shall wash my hands and go prepare to die, whether in the attack on the school, or immediately thereafter when the Dark Lord realises that I have betrayed him.

"It is not," Potter says with a sneer that I am fairly certain he copied from me. He is not overly handsome (which is strange, for even I admit that both his parents were easy on the eye – if not on the ear and other senses). It takes me a moment to realise what it is he speaks of, and when I do not respond anon he concludes what he thinks of my conscience: "You have none."

I do not know whether to laugh at his back, or curse him. I settle for the Slytherin reply.

"Congratulations, Potter. You have discovered sarcasm."

"Oh no, sir," he says easily, and it unnerves me that he has the patent Slytherin tone down better than even Draco Malfoy (who, unfortunately, while having an overabundance of ambition severely lacks in the cunning department). "That was not sarcasm – that was stating a fact." He halts and pretends to think for a while, and I notice that he has in the meantime arrived at the door to the hospital wing. He glances at me, hooks his right thumb on the waistband of his troll-sized trousers (I would very much appreciate knowing where did he get that kind of clothing – probably filched it off his relatives), and braces himself before speaking again: "Are you, by any chance, getting off on insulting people? Well, Gryffindor boys' dorms are an adventurous place, but I haven't heard of _that_ particular kink before."

For just a moment I am stunned into silence. The insults he has dared to deliver up to now were the simple, childish name-callings. He never crossed the line into personal offence… And he certainly never made any sexual references. It is disturbing, especially combined with the cold gaze he is giving me. I am inclined to believe that he _does_ suffer a trauma, and should be in bed with a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion before he blows up and damages either staff or property of the school.

But I am still his better, and letting this go unanswered would only serve to swell his head further.

"Ah, now I finally know what Gryffindors do instead of studying to achieve such dismal grades." I cringe as I listen to myself. Disturbing, indeed. But Potter merely stares at me.

"I find it intriguing that you tend to single me out for your _sharpest_ barbs, sir. Do you, perhaps, harbour some secret lust with me?"

I have been the victim of the _Langlock_ spell in the past, despite being its inventor. This is what it felt like. I cannot think of anything to say save 'Avada Kedavra', and I cannot afford to voice that particular thought, especially since my wand is still aimed at him.

When I do not respond at all, he shrugs, pushes the door open, and disappears from view.

x

Torn between blind rage and indignation at the daring of the boy who made _me_ bite my tongue, I stalk back to the chamber. Most of the Order has trickled out by now, but several members remain behind, consorting in seemingly random groups. I have no place among them – they are either the Potter-minders or the officially _not_ existing inner circle (on the off-chance that those groups are not the same). A few of them glance at me, and the air grows more humid with how unwelcome I am.

"Headmaster!" I exclaim over the buzz, and Dumbledore takes his sweet time to pull himself out of a conversation with the three Order Aurors. There will likely be a massive last-minute recruiting in the Law Enforcement. Lupin's pet Metamorphmagus does not look too happy about it; Dumbledore, on the other hand, twinkles like a loon.

I sneer at the four of them. They (with the notable exception of the Headmaster) grimace right back.

"What can I do for you, Severus?" he asks benignly, and with a chuckle adds: "I was under the impression that you wanted to be out of here as soon as possible – what with how you all but shot out of the room…" He just cannot stop himself – to him this is funny, just like it was funny when Potter hung me upside down and stripped me, just like it was funny when Black sent me after a rampaging werewolf, just like it is funny every time I come crawling to him because my legs will not keep the weight of my bones and skin upright.

"Get out of here, Snape," growls Moody, training both his eyes on my face. I think he can see the inside of my skull, fortunately, my thoughts remain private behind my mind shields. He does not like that. "I've got something to talk about, and I don't want you running off to tell your Master."

I do not dignify that with a response, simply because there is nothing I can say that _anyone_ would listen to. They think they know and they do not care about 'truth' as long as they like their 'lie'.

"Alastor!" Dumbledore admonishes, to placate me (which will not work, as I see through it) and for the sake of appearance (which no one cares about, as is apparent from the round of scoffs). Moody is on the verge of protesting even to that, but fortunately the Headmaster silences him. As usually when it comes to a confrontation between us, all eyes are on me, as if _I_ was the paranoid maniac with homicidal inclinations.

"What can we do for you, Severus?" Dumbledore says, not as benignly as before, using the slight rephrasing to remind me that I am an outsider here – I am not welcome. For an insane moment of insubordination I re-consider telling him about Potter. It is petty, but it is the only way I can defend myself without causing harm to be punished for… though, technically it could be a betrayal. And Potter is certain to let it get out that he was in the meeting, and that I know about it…

…or is he? I… want to know. I want to know it enough to take the risk.

"I came to tell you that I have a reason to believe that the security of this meeting was compromised."

"Of course it was! You were present!" exclaims a female voice from behind a larger male. All I see from her is the top of her fancy hair-style, but she obviously thinks herself smart, witty and brave. A handful of others snicker, and Dumbledore twinkles like a pair of little stars. If I was not as embittered as I am, this attitude might have come close to crushing me – that is why Slytherin breeds tough slippery bastards. Because, among wizards and witches like these, it is the only way we can survive. I brace myself and tonelessly say not what I originally came to say, but an edited version.

"None of your seats were free, Headmaster, and yet there were three standing people in the room. So," unless you have trouble counting, "we have had an odd pair of ears listening in. Good evening, gentlemen," I bite out and stalk out into the hallway, measuring the distance to my chambers in the dungeons with fast, long strides, trying almost desperately to convert all the hurt I should not be feeling into rage I can later pour out into sheer destruction.

x

A/N: Well, it is a start of a long journey... for Severus and Harry. Look forward to the next instalment and review!


	2. Adversaries

Adversaries 

The day dawns humid and too cold for the middle of July, but, as I reside in the dungeons, the temperature difference is indiscernible. My mood is marginally better, since I shattered a lot of transfigured and re-transfigured crystal and the only entity I have met after the Gryffindor League was a bottle of Alsikescotch. Despite having slept less than four hours, the amount of alcohol I consumed makes me rather malleable, and infuses me with an irrational urge to get out from between the walls and go breathe a bit of the water-saturated air outside. Gods know that I shall not have many more chances to.

It is a typical English day, I am still a bit drunk and Hogwarts is empty this early in the morning. The cold makes my bones hurt – actually not all of them, only those that I had broken in the past, which is merely the great majority. I cannot bring myself to care, stumbling ever so slightly on a tuft of grass at the bottom of the stairs in front of the gate.

The birds are filling the atmosphere with incessant chirping and tweeting, stupid enough to not realise that those sounds are bound to attract the attention of _something_ hostile – the Forbidden Forest is forbidden for a _reason_ – but otherwise the calm and quiet is rather soothing. I take the mud path along the lake, going in the opposite direction from the Forbidden Forest and the Whomping Willow, and fifty yards further I am already obscured from any watcher from the castle, for there is a grove of young trees that shields me from prying eyes.

However, as all good things in the world, the moment of peace is not to be mine.

"Potter!" I bark, scowling at the boy after I almost trip over him. What in the blazes is he doing here? He is not supposed to leave the hospital wing, and most certainly not to try and catch pneumonia sitting on the wet grass on a chilly morning. Pomfrey will bite off his head for this stunt – not that I care, but for the sake of my never-dying optimism I would rather not witness the occasion.

He looks at me dispassionately, not even bothering to pull his fringe out of his eyes. He is not wearing his glasses, so I assume that the scowl was wasted. Not that it was likely to elicit a reaction either way.

"Good morning, Professor," he says almost respectfully, but with Potter I am disinclined to believe it. "Could you please move about two feet to the side?"

"Potter!" I growl and take a customary pre-insult breath… only to be preceded by the brat's response.

"You're standing in my line of sight."

I let out an indeliberate growl of impotent fury, but the fact is that the boy has been sitting here, staring at the castle, and I indeed do stand straight in the way. But even all that does not give him the right to either be here, or demand something of me.

"Get up and return to the hospital wing this instant!" I lean down to grab his elbow, but he flinches away and I remain with a shred of a sleeve in my hand. The cloth is old and frazzled, enough to tear at the strain, but Potter does not seem to care any more than I do. For a moment I am undecided on my next course of action, but then I straighten, take a step towards where he scuttled away from me and open my mouth to deliver another command, one that I am intent on enforcing. In the end I do not have the chance.

I am hit by a barrage of spells and curse my lapse of judgement, curse Potter, all his ancestors, predecessors, peers and potential successors, all children, all Gryffindors, the Headmaster, and then Potter again… then my mind catches up to the situation and I realise that I am still standing, still conscious, and I do not feel any pain.

The shock wears off seconds later and I move to continue what I started prior to Potter's attack, only to find that I can _not_. From what I can determine, one of the spells was an extreme Impedimenta, another a Silencer, and I have no idea what else he might have done to me.

The boy exhales loudly and turns away from me, gazing at the castle again.

"I am sorry, sir," he says, and once again it sounds almost respectful. I am not in the frame of mind to listen to him, but, unfortunately (though it has little to do with luck and a lot with my mistake) I do not have a choice. "There will not be many more mornings for me to enjoy, and I am loathe to miss even one." I hate that there is anything, anything at all, that he has in common with me.

I strain against the magic holding me, and after a minute of constant pressure I manage to break the Impedimenta and move towards him, only to find that he has installed a ward around himself that restricts access into a small, circular area. In short: I cannot get to him. Of course, I could just spin around and march away, but I do not want Pomfrey after _my_ head, and that is what would happen should I leave the invalid Saviour sitting on the cold earth.

Trouble is, the Silencer holds no matter what I do, and when I can neither speak to him nor get to him, there is nothing short of attacking him with magic that I _can_ do. But, judging by what I can determine of the ward, Potter is safe from almost anything I can cast on him. And I cannot cast Unforgivables.

"Violence is like Plague," Potter says suddenly, not looking at me. "You breathe it in once, and you're never rid of it. One taste, one rush of the power and excitement, and suddenly it is there, in the back of your mind, a constant nagging… the easiest problem-solver." I hate the situation I find myself in – listening to Potter ranting about the woeful unfairness of the universe – but I have already determined that there is nothing I can do. So I resign myself to a few minutes of boring irritation (or irritating boredom) until Potter tires either of his own self-pity, or by holding the ward and the spells on me. Strange is, right at this moment my conscious mind does take in the words.

Frighteningly, they make sense. I would know – I saw myself and my _associates_ fall prey to the phenomenon the brat is describing. Briefly I wonder what did Granger have him read to make him think of such a topic… until my internal honesty kicks in, screaming that Potter was in at least two major battles with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters already and survived both – which means that violence is not unfamiliar to him. Still, it is disconcerting to see him actually think.

He briefly looks at me, shakes his head, and returns to staring over the creek at the building and spouting empty infantile wisdom.

"I can't recall a place I don't have tied to some kind of violence in my memories. You've seen a lot of them," spoken with the slight hint of accusation. It is not me he should be speaking to – best would be the Headmaster… trouble is, from what I have seen the Headmaster has little more regard for his Golden Boy then he does for me. There _should_ be aeons of difference between how he treats a re-formed Death Eater turned spy and how he treats a student. Technically (though I know this to not be truth) Potter is an innocent. A child…

"Violence is in my past, present and future." He lets out a hollow laugh, as though it was some kind of a joke, but I fail to catch the reference. A child… _Where is the child_? Because I do not see any. "That's why I did this to you, _sir_. I'm so tired of violence, so fed up with the fighting… but I know there's going to be more… and I want this little moment of peace. So, be so kind now, and go bother Dumbledore or someone."

There is a taste of much-too-familiar desperation in his voice and I am involuntarily reminded of yesterday's evening. I would rather Potter kept his mouth shut and I would never ever have to think about it again. Used to being demeaned as I am, even I reach breaking point once in a while. It is logical to assume that the Boy Who Lived would be just a human, even though there are about three people in the world left who would treat him as such. That is the trouble with the boy. He is caged by his fame.

Why the Hell did I never realise this before?

I open my mouth and close it again, because the Silencer sticks. Potter does not give any indication that he realises I am still here, and much as I want to rage at him, the hangover and my own burgeoning depression make me more likely to fall apart simply from the frustration of not being able to speak.

"They're just as hypocritical as Voldemort," Potter spits suddenly, not acknowledging me, but not exactly ignoring me either. "They fancy themselves more than other people, as if they never made a mistake in their life… fucking self-righteous arseholes! It's so easy to never choose wrong when all they have to decide on is the colour of their underwear…"

The Gryffindor poster boy (who just spoke like anything but) finally falls silent, but for me it is too late. My brain eats at itself in the process of disassociation that comes five years too late, only to add another cross on my log of deeds I shall feel guilty for – no, _not_ guilty… say, _uncomfortable_ with.

Because while James Potter was a _fucking righteous arsehole_ as they come, his son does not share all of his dubious qualities. That does not mean I shall fall on my knees and beg for my membership in Harry Potter fanclub.

"Sorry, Snape," I am startled out of my reverie to find the brat standing up, and for a moment mistakenly believe that he is trying to apologise for bothering me, or perhaps even for cursing me (after this monologue I would not put another surprise past him). But then he turns to face me and his wand is aimed at my face, discreetly, from a rather awkward position that requires him to keep his elbow bent.

"Obliviate-"

I react instinctively and that is what saves me. My hand shoots out, grabs his wrist and pulls his hand to the side, letting the spell shoot out harmlessly to the sky. He has not dispelled the ward, but coming so close to me negated its effect – a stupid mistake, caused by his lack of proper education and complete absence of practice. I glower at him; his darkened green eyes are marginally wide with surprise and his jaw is set with grim determination despite the fear evident in his slight trembling. He got too arrogant – and now he has to pay for it.

And this is who is supposed to absolve us all.

I do not know what to do with this situation. I cannot take points during the summer, I cannot assign him detention while the Order is preparing for attack, and I cannot physically hurt him. Bringing him to the Headmaster has no point, because Dumbledore would not do anything about it anyway, and both of us are averse to the man's presence right now. It will change, like a mood that comes and goes, but I do not feel like being prostrated to my second Master again so soon after my recent humiliation.

"Never," I sneer at him, baring my teeth, "_never_ again attempt this, Potter…" He must have released the Silencer, which is suspicious, because despite all my effort he does not seem to be intimidated by me. By the circumstances, sure, but not by me.

Maybe he knows that I cannot do anything.

He falls slack, sinking to his knees, but I am not stupid enough to fall for this trick (although if I could think straight the fact that a Gryffindor would attempt it would be shocking enough on its own), and take half-a-step back, which action, _damnation_, causes me to let go of his wrist. Sure enough, there is a blade in his left hand, which would have found its way disconcertingly close to my groin. He _is_ a tough little bastard… I hate to even think it, but that was too Slytherin, too well thought out, for it to be a coincidence.

Who in the blazes has taught him this thing?!

Reality returns with vengeance when I find him standing in a shimmering circular semi-permeable ward (which the little snot should not be able to construct, but when does the fucking universe ever play by the rules?), his wand trained at me… waiting. Either a total stupidity (which I am inclined to expect from Potter), or an express desire to not get into a duel. That would be the only sensible thing, for in a full-out fight, the brat has null chance of defeating me… which is exactly what the Dark Lord said, did he not? Potter is _always_ best approached with caution. Which is why I am in the position I am in – only now drawing my wand.

I do not want to get into a blasted duel either.

"Potter… put your wand away, march straight back to the castle and do not cross my way again until September… and I _might_ consider forgetting what happened here." He stares back at me through a blank mask, one that never was there before, not even when he boarded the train in June. What happened to his relatives must have been drastic… _traumatising_, indeed. But, should he put himself back together, it has also made him… more likely to survive.

"Why?" he asks tonelessly. I have half of a mind to lose patience with him… but that would be counter-productive.

"The Headmaster…" I pause, searching for a formulation simple enough for him to understand what I am trying to convey, no matter how bothersome it is, because I want out of this deadlock as fast as possible.

"Pretends to hear only what he wants to hear," he finishes. Not quite what I had in mind, but it works. I wonder what happened between Dumbledore and his protégé to cause this rapid change of feelings. "And uses the rest to steer his pets, like a cube of sugar for a job well done, or a thrown fish for a particularly well-played trick."

It is the depression that speaks for him, and it seems to back up my own. I have to get away. Now.

I let my hand fall and bark at him: "Go!" He takes a moment to contemplate the order, as though it was a suggestion, and then scrams. As soon as he is out of sight, I sack against a tree and bring out a bottle I knew I should not have carried out with me. What the Hell. Maybe I will not remember what happened here.

x

"Severus!" a stricken and more than a little nervous Minerva McGonagall comes jogging in the opposite direction, meeting me in the middle of an underground corridor just a few turns of my getting safely into my chambers. Pity. I would have very much liked to avoid this confrontation. As it is, I force my back to straighten, mutter an Air-refreshing Charm (a true life-saver for anyone who spends any amount of time in a potions laboratory) and pretend as best as I can that I am sober.

"Severus, have you seen Mr Potter?" the witch inquires, shaking like a leaf, though whether with exhaustion from running or simply with nerves I can't tell in my current state.

"What's he done now?" I growl, failing to induce the question with any emotion. I am far beyond caring about stupid Potter. I want my solitude, my bed, and my redemption. Preferably in that order.

"He _vanished_!" Minerva exclaims, throwing her hands up and dissolving into hysterics. Just what I needed on top of a bottle of Alsikescotch. The last thing missing is Potter… I laugh aloud when I realise the irony of that thought, which only makes Minerva glare and a few seconds later burst in tears.

"Saw him in the morning," I state, dignified, all traces of amusement gone from my expression. I want to be as far from her as possible, as soon as possible. Just to get the fuck away, and all smart-arsed Gryffindor saviours of the world be damned.

"Where? How long ago? Severus talk to me!" she yells when I don't tear my eyes away from the end of the corridor. If Apparition was possible within Hogwarts, I would have long since been there. Unfortunately, one Head of House insists on standing in my way.

"Severus!" She repeats forcefully, tears forgotten.

Trouble is, I seem to have forgotten, too. Potter… I saw him… in the morning, yes. Early. Early, _early_ in the morning.

"At dawn. By d'lake." There. That's something. Now to figure out what happened. "H'annoyed me." That is a given. I wring my mind for details, but it all seems somehow blurred. We fought, but that's not something to tell Minerva. I… "Told him to go back to d'castle."

Minerva somehow shrinks, staring at me in helpless misapprehension.

"That is all?" she queries quietly. I nod to her. She squeezes her eyes shut, takes a deep breath and lets me pass.

I stalk (wobbly) into the relatively safe haven of my chambers. And good morning to you, too, Minerva.

x

There is a short meeting before dinner in the Great Hall – so that the exhausted 'rescuers' do not have to journey too far to their plates. I still doubt that Potter is truly in danger; he merely seeks more attention – though, if I were as honest with myself as I strive to be, I would have to admit that it begins looking to me more like he is trying to _escape_ the attention. Not that he does a good job of it.

An enraged Poppy Pomfrey and a legion of distraught wizards and witches, who in the face of the planned attack took residence in the castle, make it obvious even without listening to their tedious reports that the results of their search are negative. Despite that I have to endure a good thirty minutes of arguing, yelling, screeching, crying and howling 'sophisticated members of the resistance against the Dark Lord' before Dumbledore presents the conclusion.

"Alas, presently we do not have the time to look for Harry." There is something definitely suspicious about how easily the Headmaster gives in. As though he supported the brat's actions… as though… Is it possible that this all is but a plot of the Headmaster to keep Potter in Hogwarts despite the consensus of the Order that he should be moved elsewhere? Has Dumbledore secreted the boy into some hidden nook? Or…

"I am quite certain that he will come out of hiding soon, and I will then have a serious conversation with him. But now, we have stalled long enough." He claps, sparing his emotional audience the pain of listening to nonsensical words, and the plates fill themselves.

I do not eat, still lost in my musings. I can hardly believe it. It is more likely that Potter escaped his watches… is it not? Either way, something is afoot. When I spoke to (argued with) the little moron earlier – it is coming back, albeit in short, chronologically misplaced images – he seemed too bitter with the old coot… did he not? Or was he, as I believed until yesterday, a good little pawn to always act as instructed by the authorities (except when he would have to follow rules)?

How is it even possible? How did he acquire the skill to avoid security? When did he learn to act and lie? Did he suddenly, miraculously, find his ability of logical thinking and deduction? His supposed skills and his decisions are at odds. Potter is turning out to be one great paradox, an oxymoron, a compilation of contradictions. A person like him cannot exist. He _is_ in a way that should be impossible to a Gryffindor. I must have missed something about him. A minute fact that could bring all this philosophical drivel into proportion and make Potter make sense.

"Eat, Severus." Lupin nudges my elbow, and I lose what little appetite might have survived the meeting and my hangover. I stand up and, not bothering to excuse myself from people who are glad to see me go, walk back to the dungeons.

I have no doubt Potter will resurface. Trouble is, when he does, what can be done about him?

x

A/N: Review, please?


	3. Enemies

A/N: Thank you, all my (admittedly sparse) reviewers! I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story. 

Brynn

Enemies 

x

"It has been almost a week," Minerva says tightly, sitting stiffly in the high-backed chair near the window, nursing a cup of steaming tea in her slightly shaking hands. All within the room exhibit various signs of stress, fear and anticipation mixed with impatience.

"Are you so eager to die?" I mutter under my breath despondently. Lupin, sitting in a place that could be called 'next to me', although only because no one sits closer (I have been graciously allowed to take the chair closest to the door – perhaps to prod me to leave at my earliest convenience?), seems to hear something, but does not act on it. Last night was full moon and (despite the effects of the Wolfsbane I provide him with) he was only just left out of the hospital wing, and would be absolutely useless for another day at the least. Apart from Lupin's minute twitch, there is no indication that someone might have noticed my comment.

"They can't wait much longer," says Jones, one of the few of this bunch who keep a functional brain within their head. "The night watch reports attacks from the outside – someone noticed our situation and alerted the Ministry." When all connections to the outside were severed at once, unexpectedly, a gloomy atmosphere fell on the castle. The inhabitants realised that in their effort to not alert the Dark Lord to their knowledge of his plans they forgot to ensure that someone comes to help them from the other side.

I think 'them' because I dislike the association with me, but the truth is that _we_ have been under siege for – as Minerva counted – almost a week, and only yesterday there were sightings of fights. I am still inclined to believe they were random duels between Death Eaters, or perhaps a little 'having fun', rather than an attack by Law Enforcement. I would like to hope – in my endless optimism – that the Ministry task force would make a more noticeable dent into the Dark Lord's forces.

"It's going to be tonight," a quiet male voice says casually, and a hand appears in the mid-air. Those of the Order who currently enjoy a tea-break in the staff lounge let out a cacophony of sounds of surprise, few of them jump, one shrieks, and pathetically few reach for their wands. A circular wall shimmers, silently warning those with inclination to attack that they should not, as Potter divests himself of his Invisibility Cloak and braves the displeasure of the Light Side.

"Potter!" Minerva is the first to exclaim, followed a split second later by Lupin's 'Harry!', and then by another cacophony, which the boy endures with stoical calm and a lifted eyebrow that reminds me disconcertingly of myself.

I notice that the only one not surprised by his sudden presence is the Headmaster, whom I have long suspected to be able to see through the magical artefact. He looks on with a benign smile and a weak twinkle in his eyes that has been completely absent during the past two weeks of preparations for the war's coming to Hogwarts.

"And how do you know that, boy!" shouts Moody angrily. Potter looks at him like I would at a Gryffindor first-year, and the realisation that the boy had changed and how much comes back with unnerving clarity. He waits for a while, to show beyond any doubts that he is not going to submit himself to Moody's bullying, and then lifts his fringe to show off blistered, raw red patch of skin around his scar – which is more of an open wound right now. It obviously has been bleeding, but stopped before Potter crawled out from wherever he had been hiding.

"It is wonderful to see you again, my boy," the Headmaster's twinkle intensifies. Potter looks at him, facing away from me, but never dispels his personal ward. A few of those more knowledgeable in the field of passive shielding charms stare at him as though he grew two more heads, sprouted scales, and started speaking Parseltongue.

"No," the boy says resolutely, before Dumbledore even voices his proposal.

"Harry, you must be safe-"

"With all due respect, Headmaster, _no_." There is very little respect in Potter's tone. He draws himself marginally taller and sighs, overlooking the lounging group without any substantial interest. "Do you know why the age of consent is sixteen?"

Those who fancy themselves caring about the boy let out a wave of disapproving exclamations. Potter ignores them, speaking to the Headmaster, who so far gives no indication of either agreeing or disagreeing, which seems to fit the boy just fine.

"Because while younger people may think that they are ready for a commitment of that scale, they truly are not ready judge their readiness," Potter declares. "My friends may be ready for battle – but they are not ready for the decision to join it. Therefore, according to your policy, they are staying out."

Finally, Dumbledore deigns to interrupt the monologue.

"Harry, you wanted to join the Order last year-"

"That only serves as a perfect illustration for my argument, Professor. We – neither of us – were ready for that decision."

I cannot pass up such an opening.

"But now you are… _ready_… to join the battle, Potter, are you not. Of course you would judge yourself more mature, more _responsible_ than your peers." I am not done with my speech, but he jumps into the tiniest pause between two sentences to _insolently_ voice a comeback.

"Am I given a choice, _sir_?" he asks calmly, turning just his head. It is unnatural. He should have thrown a tantrum, not attempt to reason with me. It will not help him, anyway. I open my mouth-

And he turns his back on me, facing the Headmaster.

"Are you going to send me back to Privet Drive, now? Or to Grimmauld Place? He'll just try and possess me again." _Possess_?! Potter was… actually, that makes a frightening amount of sense. Ten times Cruciatus, he said. Trauma… Merlin.

There are more exclamations in the background, and a lot of muttering, but Potter ignores them all and continues his spiel. "How many people do I have to kill before you let me face him? Are six not enough? Ah, but seven is _the_ magical number…" It is a small blessing that neither of the Weasleys is present for this discussion, though Lupin and Minerva both look to be on the verge of tears. Several others, who do not exactly understand what Potter is speaking of alternate between whispering among themselves and watching the scene unfold with avid interest. Dumbledore opens his mouth, but once again the brat is faster to speak.

"And do you think that attempting to break through that barricade, or through the wards, is less dangerous than staying here?"

"Impossible!" growls Moody, and from the opposite corner a part of a not private enough conversation wafts over: "-safe room." As if _somewhere_ was safe once the Dark Lord gets there. Other suggestions follow, some more sensible then others, but Potter looks at the people around him as if they were a huddle of children he was to humour. They do not know how to deal with him. Merlin and Morgana – _I_ do not know how to deal with this Potter.

"No, Harry… you are right," Dumbledore admits in defeat. I scowl at the impudence – the little brat has no right to win an argument with anyone of the staff! Not to mention half of the staff plus half of his minders put together! "You are right in that you staying here is the best option for everyone." The _only_ option. Potter has ensured that with his stint. I would very much like to know _where_ in the castle he has been staying. "But I cannot let you blame yourself for the deaths-"

"You cannot stop me." The insufferable rude brat turns around and sets out towards the door, away from the Headmaster, without waiting for dismissal. He mouths something to himself: "You have no right to stop me." Lip-reading is a useful skill for a spy – and for a teacher – but it does little for blood-pressure. I would happily kill the snot-nosed bastard where he stands… He looks at me – and I _mean_ looks, _not_ glares – and I, for some unfathomable reason do not utter the pre-prepared put-down that lingers of the tip of my tongue. The whelp will get his, today or tomorrow, and I will be able to honestly say that it was _not_ me who put _the rest of the world_ out of the misery.

x

After his shock-and-run, the strategy of defending Hogwarts was discussed again and my position assigned (another glaring sign of incompetence of the Order – had Potter not emerged, the line of defence would have been chaos). I was not surprised in the least when I learned of my spot; Moody expects the attack to start from the air, since it is the easiest way to reach the castle and one of the hardest to guard, and therefore I will be waiting for them on the ramparts, in the very first line.

I am always in the first line, death kneeling next to me on both sides, filling the rooms (halls) with little clones of itself that vary in intensity and painfulness, but all sport the same attire. I am not daunted by the prospect of meeting it head on… I merely dislike the prospect of actually dying. Not that I have much to live for. I only ever have myself… and potions.

I prowl the castle, and when the excuse of searching for students out of bounds fails to placate even me this time, I admit it to myself that I am rather fond of the building as such, and shall I die I might just miss it. So I seek to prowl it one last time. Just in case. Irony, though, is that what I actually find along my way is the single student out of bounds I might have chanced upon.

Potter sits on a desk in a currently unused Defence classroom, humming a slow tune very quietly, staring at an empty bird-cage on the next desk. There is no bird in the room… thought that is probably the point of this one-man pity-session. Poor Potter, abandoned even by his owl. Alone in the end… does that not sound _familiar_ (forgive the pun)?

I, being myself, cannot help but say something insulting, if only to see how he would react. He stands up from his _perch_ on the desk and faces me, a frown of displeasure being the single indication his mood.

"What do you envy me so much, Snape?" He asks with bitterness that he should have rightly collected much later in life. I, since I taunted him to hear what he has to say in the first place, let him go on. "My charmed childhood? My carefree teenage years when all I had to worry about were grades and girls? My prospect of a long, productive, happy life? The complimenting interest of press? The nearly empty medical file?" With unusual carefulness, to not disturb the burns, he pulls his fringe out of his face to show off his forehead. It must hurt very much, but he says nothing and seeks no medical help – so he suffers. However, to be fair – not that I am – I doubt there is anything Poppy could do to help him. "The un_marked_…" I notice the stress he puts on 'Marked', and understand what he tries to convey, "unblemished skin…"

I understand sarcasm. There are even a few students in the dungeons whose sense of humour I – privately, of course – appreciate. But this… this cynicism-stinking self-pity makes me sick. It is repulsive and I fully intend to inform Potter of my opinion… But when I look at him, I find that he has pulled off his shirt – which is of itself a disturbing prospect – but how does a sixteen-year-old end with a body of a Death Eater?

"Put your clothes back on, Potter, before I get you expelled for indecency." The little wretch laughs. It is a low, hollow sound that sends shivers down my spine.

"Do you think you could? _I_ have to kill Voldemort, Snape! Would you even _want_ me out of school?" If he were a Slytherin, that question would be about my true loyalties, but I doubt this _Gryffindor_ knows what it is 'implication', not to speak about actually understanding one.

"You arrogant little ingrate! You are not get-"

"Stop right there, Snape," he cuts me off before I can get into a good venting rant. "I can take off my shirt whenever I wish to. It's not like I'm _flashing_ you…" I am reminded of the instance nearly two weeks ago, when he dared insinuate that I harboured inappropriate _feelings_ for him.

"I will have you in detention until you graduate."

He laughs again, pulling the clothes (though I hesitate to call them such) back on over goose-bumped flesh, to stave off the cold.

"Oh, no, this won't work, _Professor_," he says with infuriating nonchalance. "Either you stop harassing me, or you stop exercising your privileges as a teacher. Otherwise I'm taking it to the Headmaster – he can explain to you that summer is _not_ the time to abuse children." Another laugh, one that I only suspect the cause of. So, suddenly Dumbledore would be good enough for the brat to speak to – to clean up his messes. How… predictable. Potter's face distorts in an ugly grimace for a moment before he speaks again: "I think he learnt that, what with how the Dursleys ended up…"

"What exactly are you insinuating, Potter?!" Dursleys – those were his relatives, I believe. They are dead. It happens. It is going to happen to all of us today.

"Did you know that our esteemed Headmaster left a fifteen months old baby on a doorstep in a suburb to survive through the night unattended?" the boy chuckles with a bad humour. I fail to see why this should interest me – except that even I would not do something like that… to an infant. Not even an older child, but fifteen months… "And then he did not bother to check on the child for another ten years. Then he sent a letter, addressed to the 'cupboard under the stairs'… and when it came time to face the child, he delegated the task to a kind, but rather dim flunky."

I have no sympathy. For anyone. But if this were a dispute between Potter and the Headmaster (and I know he is not lying – I have known since the Occlumency fiasco) I would have found myself on the brat's side. Having had a less than _child_hood myself, I cannot bring myself to condone actions such as Potter describes… but at the same time I cannot admit (even to myself) that he is right in something, lest my carefully constructed universe falls apart around me. And that I cannot afford before a battle. There is one upside to not surviving now – I do not have to think about this little monster anymore. Ever.

"The Headmaster does not have the time to-"

"Spare me. He had time enough to condemn me." He speaks quietly, tiredly, gazing at the floor, and seems to feel disconnected from the entire matter. He also seems to notice the lack of belief I have in my words. But I have to argue it. It is a law of nature or something.

"Quit the drama-"

"Quit the snarkiness. For one _miserable_ second of your _miserable_ career shut up and listen to your student!" He looks up, finally, and I wonder if he is going to pipe his eyes once he has been left alone. A child - that is what he is. Not someone to let go into a battle. Just a child. With inane questions. "Isn't that what _teachers_ are supposed to do?" Teachers teach and get paid for it.

Seeing my refusal in my expression, he shakes his head and sighs. "I shouldn't be surprised."

Then he jumps up and grabs the cage. I turn around and walk away from him before he can do it to me.

x

I am standing on the rampart, overlooking the grounds. I see no Death Eaters and no Dark creatures, but that does not mean they are not there. It is a moderately warm, moderately sunny summer day, and I am annoyed by how bloody _perfect_ it is. Not too cold, not too hot, there is no sign of rain and the visibility is astounding. The _moderate_ wind makes my robe flap and my hair fly into my face, over and over and…

I hate it. I totally despise the moderate _perfection_ of the thrice-accursed summer day. In the words of a prophet: the seventh month is dying. By midnight it will be dead. And a lot of us with it.

"Severus?" a chipper voice sounds from the trapdoor to the right, and I surprise myself by not having to fight the urge to cringe. Strange, how the day – or the last fortnight and what happened during it – mellowed me. I turn my head and stare at the bewildered face of the young woman.

"I almost didn't recognise you!" she says cheekily, and I do not bother answering. I look back to the grass field, the treetops of the forest… the lake. I have lived here for so long that all this somehow became a part of my life. My home. How… peculiar.

"Did you forget to put on your scowl when you left your quarters this morning?" the menace asks, and my fingers spasm in imitation of the action I have in mind… but for all her youthful idyss, this woman does not truly deserve to be strangled. I shiver as I imagine what other fates might be waiting for her tonight.

"I am not in the mood for conversation, _Nymphadora_."

"Oh, you're never in the mood for conversation, _Severus_!" she exclaims happily. How can she feel and act like that when faced with a battle? How can she not be afraid? How can she laugh in the face of death?

I am not afraid of death, but I hold a (more than) healthy dose of respect for it. After all, as Albus Dumbledore would say, it is a life-changing occurrence.

"Go away, _Nymphadora_."

She smiles. How is it that she blows up at everyone who calls her that, but when I do it on purpose, to aggravate and drive her away, she just ignores it?!

"In just a moment," she says and looks down at the grounds, the greenhouses, the grass-fields, the Whomping Willow, the grove, the forest, the squid lazily flapping among the _moderate_ waves on the water. "It could be the last time."

So… perhaps she is not so blind to the possibility of dying. Aurors are odd, but as long as they cannot be bought, they are some of the most respect-worthy wizards and witches I have ever met, no matter what House they stem from, and no matter how headache-inducing the colour of their hair is.

x

They wait for the precise moment when the sun, which would be otherwise blinding them, sinks behind the mountains. Then they attack.

The first influx has two leaders, each coming from one side, leading a loose triangular formation of fliers. Most of them dodge our spells with ease, having enough space around them to manoeuvre. On the other hand, their spells do not take out any of our people either. Then the tide changes as they come closer – I blast my way through a group of newbies with ease, and they fall to their deaths like flies, some screaming, some unable to. There is little challenge for me in it – they are easy to hit just before they land. Once they are on the solid ground though – and they do get there, for the sheer number of them is so much greater than ours – the true battle starts. I do not have time to shoot down the incoming second line, as I have to shield and attack those who flock around me from both sides. Through the corner of my eye I see Tonks joining Shacklebolt and Jones, forming a triangle where two cover two sides of ramparts and the third one blasts the fliers. It works well – except that I do not have two compatriots to shield my sides.

x

It could be five minutes or an hour later, but there are no more fliers. All were shot down, making the lawn where students would flock and study prior to exams into a field of broken bodies – shattered bones, spilt blood, shredded flesh, rags of cloaks, shards of masks, splinters of wood. Hogwarts is a morgue.

"Snape!" a less than half-sane screech penetrates my shield and I turn to its source just in time to dodge a red beam of Cruciatus. "Traitor!" Bellatrix snarls, tearing her red-splattered mask off and casting it over the ramparts into the abyss of Hogwarts grounds, so that I can see – and appreciate – her wrath. She is uglier than usual, deep wrinkles marring her emaciated face, distorting it into a grimace that would seem more pitiful than menacing to anyone that does not know what she is capable of. My blood runs cold, but fortunately I do not freeze – I am, after all, not suicidal. I slide to the left to avoid another Cruciatus and shield against a Bone-breaking curse.

I am, objectively, one of the best duellists of my generation, but against Bellatrix Lestrange my chances are minimal. Did the Dark Lord believe in monogamy, she would have decades since become the Dark Lady.

"I knew it…" she growls, sending another volley of curses. "I told m'lord you were not to be trusted…"

I do not respond to her taunts, saving my breath for the fight for survival. A few weak Stinging Spells designed to distract me are reflected off my personal ward. Mine land; apparently, despite her uncontested power and viciousness, she is not capable of continued concentration such as is necessary to maintain a personal ward.

"But what else could be expected of a pathetic snivelling half-blood-"

My ears ring with an implosion that occurs within my shield – the secondary blast of the spell hits the wall just above my shoulder. The stone splinters, and my back and wand arm burn as tiny shards of granite bury themselves in my flesh. I stumble, and Bellatrix jerks her wand upwards with a crazy victorious smile.

"Avada-_urk_."

In the following pause I get the chance to climb to my feet and move to the side in case there was another spell cast on me. Bellatrix stands with her hand still held high and I see nothing wrong with her until a few feet of silver cut through the air and sever half of her forearm in one downward swish. The detached hand falls to the ground and _clatters_ as the wood of the wand meets the stone. The woman's eyes widen further with incomprehension as she stares at what was a part of her just a moment ago.

Her attacker steps closer, foolishly entering a patch of light, and I with horror realise that my life was saved by _Harry bloody Potter_, who, like the complete dunderhead he is, just relinquished his advantage of a personal ward by stepping into Bellatrix's personal space. Before I can shout at him, though, he turns the sword (where did Potter get a sword?!) over with a flick of his wrist, and with another calm, precisely measured strike severs Bellatrix's head.

There is a moment of resounding silence, as if the sounds of the battle didn't permeate the air, and Potter straightens, cleaning the blade with the rim of the rags he is wearing and sheathing it.

"You should be more careful, Snape," he says quietly, with detached coolness. "Go on like that, and I'll get a chance to repay all my life-debts before the day is out."

"Not likely-" I reply icily and aim my wand over his shoulder at the rising shape of a black-cloaked, white-masked person. Potter's eyes narrow, and he turns around, faster than I would have thought possible, though he does have the benefit of Muggle clothing and five years of Quidditch training. He does not speak – does not have enough time to, really – but somehow he must cast a Summoning spell, because in the next moment, there is a big chunk of stone – previously a part of the wall that has been shattered in the crossfire – in his hand, and he simply reaches up and brains the Death Eater.

I remain frozen for the next few seconds, stunned by the brutal lack of feeling in the attack – like a savage, Potter follows the downward movement of the falling wizard only to strike again and again, disregarding the state of his enemy until some thought penetrates his brain and he realises that the originally trademark Malfoy blond hair is now Weasley red, and the liquid oozing from the shards of the skull used to be a central nervous system.

When the boy finally understands that no spell on Earth would revive Lucius, he shakes himself, stands up, throws the stone over the banister and wipes his hands into his Muggle trousers. Stray drops of blood soak into the cloth, giving it the appearance of a bad dye, but Potter's hands are now streaked with red that will not come off. He looks at them for a moment, then shrugs and sets out away from me, stepping over Lucius's corpse.

"How could you…" I breathe, and against all odds he hears me over the noise of fighting. It is not that I am unused to such barbarity, but I did not think _any_ of Hogwarts students capable of such an act.

"Didn't want him to suffer… needlessly…"

"Potter…" I growl. If he is mocking me…

"If he's dead, then he won't stand up and attack again." Of course, but that is the philosophy of Death Eaters. Albus Dumbledore's toy soldiers do not think like that. They cast Stunners and Impedimentas, and the occasional Tarantallegra when the two become too dull. But Potter's eyes are no longer more readable than his scrawl – they are shuttered and the only thing they convey is a hard ruthlessness of the mind behind them. This is _the Saviour_. This is the being that will stand up when the rest of us cannot. And he wants _me_ to know it.

"I thought you of all people could appreciate that," he speaks softly, and it takes me long seconds of precious time to realise he was not reading my mind, but adding to his previous statement.

I let him set out without any response, but he does not go far. He aims his wand into a deeper shadow and remarks: "If you put the wand down right now, Malfoy, I swear I'll give you a chance."

For the first time I notice a smaller figure standing on the steps that lead to the next part of the ramparts, wand held high, but the fingers holding it trembling. I, just for a fraction of time, have to wonder whether the conversation between Potter and me right now has been staged for Draco's benefit. On any other occasion I would say Potter did not have it in him to think forwards, but there was a decidedly un-Gryffindor tendency in his handling of the entire situation with Lucius, ever since the beginning. And then his eyes… I do not think the boy is to be trusted, not in anything he says, but right now it truly _would_ be better for Draco to lower his wand.

"I…" the young Slytherin mumbles something unintelligible; his hand falls and he looks over to me briefly before turning his attention back to Potter-

Only to receive a faceful of a Stunner.

I am enraged on Draco's behalf, exclaiming something inappropriate for the premises of a school, helplessly watching the unconscious boy topple forwards, just to have a shot of green light skim the back of his robe and sizzle on his hair. When I have time to think about it I concede that compared to the way Potter treated the other Death Eaters, his _pacifying_ of Draco was very gentle.

That is not counting the fact that it saved his life.

The Gryffindor brat in question calmly walks forward, curses of increasing power and fierceness bounce off his ward in a way that is supposed to be impossible, until he comes to a halt two steps in front of a dark shape.

"Lestrange," he says plaintively. Then he nods, ducks under a Cruciatus and sticks the blade of the sword between the Death Eater's ribs. The man tries to fight back, at least to take Potter with him, but the boy has nothing of it, and when another spell threatens to form on the tip of Lestrange's wand, he severs his head, too. A small geyser of blood half hits his face, half streams past him, drenching the Muggle 'attire' and flooding the stony ground. The body slumps and Potter reaches forward to pull a dagger out of its boot – thus I know it is Rabastan he has just killed. Rodolphus prefers bigger weapons and does not believe in concealment – or _preferred_ and _did_ _not_, as the case may be.

We have won the battle. I still have trouble believing it, though the pain in my back and hand makes it much more realistic. Half of my robe is drenched with _my_ blood. I should go and see Poppy… and ask about the butcher's bill. Not that I am going to mourn, but it is good to be informed…

And then it all goes to Hell. Again.

Potter lets out an enraged shriek, and I realise that the jerky quality of his movements I ascribed to exhaustion or a wound is caused by something – some_one_ – different. His wand falls from his hand, which he immediately clenches around his left wrist, trying to push his hand away from his jugular, which is approximately two inches from meeting the tip of the stolen dagger. He cries and stumbles, but his hands remain locked, the muscles and tendons, visible where the elephant-sized sleeves do not cover his arms, straining.

I back away from him. I do not want him to die, but in this situation I cannot accomplish anything. His ward would repel my spells, and I might as well throw myself off the ramparts as try to restrain him bodily. Instead, I watch with morbid interest.

So this is what possession looks like. Except that this time the Dark Lord is being defied.

Potter shrieks one last time and falls to ground in utter exhaustion, whining pitifully. I cannot find it in myself to either scorn or berate him, not even in the privacy of my head. He spasms, and I see the beginnings of the too well-known tremors. Ten times Cruciatus, he said. _Ten_.

"Voldemort…" he gasps. "Retreat… gone." And he finally, mercifully blacks out.

x

The hospital wing is full of small noises – clanking, scraping, rustling, shuffling and moaning. A bench is transfigured in the centre of the room, and on it, like hens, are perched lightly-wounded members of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore himself is in full health, meandering between the beds and aiding with breaking curses. Pomfrey follows on his heals, mending all that cannot wait.

I set the bodies I have levitated down from the ramparts on the nearest vacant beds, and slink through the throng to the opposite side of the room to retrieve some medicine: a full bottle of my own after-Cruciatus brew, burn salve, Skele-Gro, Blood-replenishing and Pain-relieving Potion.

Potter is the first I tend to, although he is not in mortal danger. It brings an adumbration of much-needed closure. I briefly examine Draco; he sports some injuries, but all of them are older and healing quite well on their own. I move along to the next bed, and then further down the aisle, tending to those unconscious and those whose pride is not dearer to them than their health.


	4. Survivors

A/N: Please, review? The last chapter scored a total of 0 reviews, and I was reduced to begging for feedback… pretty please? Survivors 

And so I live to see another dawn, after all. The connection to the outside world is re-established; Healers have come and healed and gone and taken some of the injured with them to a proper hospital; fighters with families waiting for them have gone home; _our_ dead were cleaned up and prepared for their burial sometime within the next week.

Those very few who have neither some incapacitating injury nor waiting relations, are left to clean up the 'battlefield' and the grounds. There is much less green then any other summer – black and brown patches cover lots of it. The work is disgusting and tedious, threatening weaker natures with bouts of tears and nausea, but it has to be done.

I have emptied my stomach once in the beginning, from what meagre portion I ate at dinner yesterday, and since that time there was nothing to throw up left. I do gag once in a while, but that is to be expected when one is digging through partly dismantled corpses to find out the identity of the former wizard or witch. Some have faces to recognise left, others wear noticeable jewellery, but few are mangled beyond any resemblance to their living selves and bear no symbol of any of the more famous bloodlines.

Pomona breaks down quickly, and Rolanda takes the chance to get away without 'embarrassing' herself first, escorting her back into the castle. As if there was anything embarrassing about despising bloodbath. Even I do not have a sharp word for anyone who skives off.

There is much more 'work' than I would have expected; the battle was just as fierce on all sides of the castle, even though the line I was a part of actually faced the frontal raid (and met most of the Inner Circle). A special group even managed to infiltrate the castle, but they walked straight into the waiting Headmaster's arms, and were long since tidied up by the house elves.

Uttering 'Evanesco', I do away with the late Primitiva Goyle and set out across a blissfully green patch of grass to another pile of flesh-and-bone soup. I do not get there, though, before the entrance gate opens and a smallish figure dressed in a robe of black and red (that makes my intestines lurch just by itself) walks out into the clear, sunny day. They look up at the sky for a moment, and then set out straight for the front gates, moving slowly. I know it is Potter from the moment I let myself think about something that is not human remains, and, after a short contemplation, I follow the boy before he can do anything more stupid than what he has already managed.

He is aware of me, but lets me walk up to him without a remark. His feet are bare, which is the height of appalling, considering what one can step into on Hogwarts grounds today. He, however, does not seem to care and makes his way to the massive iron construction with single-mindedness that escapes me until we come close enough for me to discern the four dark shapes.

"Permanent Sticking Charm," Potter states hollowly, staring at four empty pairs of eyes that gape blankly at the castle. I knew these people… three were alumni; one would have been in the seventh year – Wood, Spinnet, Johnson, Bell. There is a message burnt across their chests in writing that is unknown to me, but obviously Potter has seen it before.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY.

Merlin… I cannot tear my eyes from the gates. The Gryffindor at my side takes a ragged breath, wipes his dry eyes into the sleeve of his school-robe, and lifts his wand, mouthing a silent 'I am sorry'.

"Concremo."

I feel the wave of heat on my face; it does not even singe the metal bars, but destroys the bodies completely. I command the levitating Dicta-quill to make a note on the levitating parchment, and that is it. For me, at least. The boy keeps staring, as if there was something to see… something to do… He has cleaned up. Someone (the Headmaster, most likely) will inform the bereaved, and that is _the end_.

He turns around and his wild hair shields his expression from me.

"Potter-"

"What can I say? I'm _popular_," he spits into my face, turns around and walks away, and I am forced to remember the uncomfortably familiar quote: 'Harry Potter. Our new – _celebrity_.' And I realise that Harry Potter was in fact, especially at that age, but a child without parents to stand up for him. And it is too late now, because he is not anymore.

x

At half past seven I decide to forgo the last meal of the day as well, since I could not eat anything right now, and aim straight into the dungeons with a clear objective of a dose of Dreamless Sleep. It is not to be, though, due to an unfortunate combination of meeting a tired – and therefore far from patient – medi-witch, walking into a circle of torchlight, and having my traitorous robe soaked through with my own blood. It is black on black, so she should not have seen it, but apparently the wetness glints.

"Severus Snape! Of all the irresponsible… march straight to the hospital wing, young man." Were it another day I would not let her order me around, but a short-tempered Poppy Pomfrey is easier to obey than to argue with, and I am too drained to care much. I have counted fifty-three of my former (and, to my consternation, also current) students among the fallen. And the second half of the massacre waits until tomorrow to be sorted through.

"Have you seen Potter, perchance?" I inquire and sit down on the bed as instructed. Pomfrey bustles over with a bottle of disinfectant, and a small phial of the so much desired Dreamless Sleep Potion. I hardly notice her, with my eyes trained on the liquid, observing the sloshing within the glass. If I did not know better, I might suspect that I have a concussion. As it is, this is more likely a sign of mental exhaustion.

"Why do you care, Severus?" I almost shrug, but think better before I do, remembering the reason why I have, once again, been landed here.

"I do not." As long as he does not kill himself. I hope he does not. Strangely enough.

"Drink this and rest. I can work better while you are unconscious."

I concede the point and kick myself out with the proffered dose, taking care to land on my stomach. The world eases into a sweet, blithe darkness.

x

The awakening is rude, and almost as cruel as sobering charms.

"You hexed me!"

Draco's whine is unmistakable, and now more likely to give me a headache than it was ever before. I squint; the ward is bathed in sunlight, and the few conscious patients watch with various levels of obviousness the verbal duel between an almost Death Eater Draco Malfoy, who sits in a bed with his hands shackled to its frame, and the Boy Who Lived. Potter is leaning against the wall a few steps further, looking disconcertingly like an Azkaban escapee. He has a shadow of insanity in his eyes distinctly reminiscent of Black, similar darkness hanging around him like an aura, and the vacant expression that suggests resignation. He crosses his hands in front of his chest – another gesture he seems to have adopted from me – and looks at the Slytherin. Calmly.

"It was a Stunner from me or an Avada from your Uncle. I figured you would prefer the Stunner, but if you change your mind, you can always ask Snape to whip up something nasty to end your suffering among us – half-bloods." He jerks his head in my direction, and for a moment I am surprised that he noticed I am awake… Then I realise that he did not notice. My yesterday's fear is assuaged, at least, for the manner of Potter's speech suggests that he is using cynicism as a coping mechanism. I would watch out for self-mutilation, were I one of those responsible for him, but I do not think he would actually try to kill himself.

"Mr Malfoy," I say, entering the conversation to provide a witness' account, "I know intimately the discomfiture of owing a life-debt to a Potter, but you will have to learn to _live_ with it." Yes, Draco. Potter _does_ tell you the truth.

The Slytherin's eyes travel between Potter and myself a few times, and eventually he nods to me, though he remains almost fearful. Apparently, no one (or at least no one he would trust) explained to him my position in this war. That brings me to another issue – what exactly is my position now? I obviously cannot spy anymore, and I am not trusted enough to do anything constructive… except cremate piles of corpses.

I turn on my other side, and notice that Pomfrey's assistance helped – my back does not hurt anymore. I just do not want to go back to 'cleaning'.

x

"Have you ever had the Cruciatus Curse cast on you?" someone whispers. It is the middle of the night; I have been awakened by a nightmare and will not be able to go back to sleep because I spent the whole day in bed. I wonder who had to do the 'cleaning up' in my stead. "By who?" asks the same voice.

"My Aunt," Draco replies almost as quietly. His voice is easy to recognise, besides, he tends to elongate his ahs and ohs.

"Bellatrix…" the other voice growls, and the ferocity is indicative of Potter. "She was a right bitch."

"_Was_?" The Malfoy scion apparently spent too much time cowering to notice his Aunt being chopped to pieces.

"Malfoy, she led a part of a large-scale attack on Hogwarts yesterday. You bet someone got in her way." Lying by omission? How… Dumbledoresque. "Now, you must realise that as a law-abiding citizen, I should turn you over to the right authorities. The Ministry." I sense a 'but' and wait for the alternative. Potter has spent too many years under the Headmaster's tutelage to not adopt some of his mannerism.

"B-but…"

"No buts, Malfoy." _Of course_ there _is_ an alternative. But I must concede that Potter knows how to bait Draco. He has had half a decade of practice, too. "You put your wand down – that's the reason you are alive now. I've never said I'd let you go free." I wonder if Dumbledore knows about this haggling with lives. He did the same a long time ago, naturally, so there is no moral high ground for him to twinkle down at Potter from, yet I would very much like to see what his reaction would be to this happening _outside_ his influence.

"You attacked Hogwarts together with Death Eaters. Without your Mother and Father to buy you out, you'd get, according to the latest policy, ten years in Azkaban – since you _didn't_ actually hurt anyone, as far as witnesses saw. Not only you'd miss out on the best years of your life, but you'd lose your chance on education and, consequently, on any worthwhile employment later, _and_ you'd be stripped of all your belongings." How… clever. Threaten a Malfoy with poverty – and they fold. Who would have expected such _underhandedness_ of Potter? One well-worded statement, and Draco is a breath away from panicking.

"I… Potter, you have no reason to believe me, but I didn't want to do it."

"Let's say I was a stupid Gryffindor, and did believe you." I stifle a chuckle at that statement, using the pillow to mask the noise. "Would you be willing to submit yourself to my… custody… for the next two years?"

"Potter, you're a minor. You can't have custody of me."

"Not officially. But there are bonds that depend on magical power, not on the current laws."

"That's…"

"Dark Arts. Shocking?" At this point, not anymore. Two days ago, that admission might have given me a heart-attack. "Well, Malfoy, this is my offer to you. Find such a bond, let me perform it, and I'll shield you from the Ministry, and from Voldemort and his lackeys."

There is a long, long while of silence. I curse myself for feeling cheated by fate that Draco has someone to stand up for him when I, in a similar situation, had no one.

"Do you swear?" Draco asks in the end, his voice small and surprisingly child-like. For all his boasting and picking fights, he is far too young for war. My eyes land on Potter's still form, sitting on the cold tiling at the foot of the Slytherin's bed, curled into a compact shape with his arms encircling his knees. Too young…

"You'll be my charge," he says with honesty that almost hurts. Potter truly wants to save Draco, just like someone should have saved him. "I'll take care of you when it's needed, and you'll strive to meet my expectations. There will be no abuse, either physical or metaphorical, from either of us, lest the bond is dissolved, and with it our agreement." That is so much more than Draco deserves… I am inclined to envy him. How pathetic is that? I finally see the idyss of jealousy, only to fall into the same trap because of meaningless sympathy.

"Fine, Potter," Draco replies, lowering his head, as though he lost something. He does not know to appreciate what a great gift Potter just gave him. "I'll do it. J-just… don't let Weasley…"

Potter gives the darkness a wry, humourless smile, and the world is just a step closer to salvation, because their saviour now has something worthwhile to live for.

"Sleep, Malfoy. Tomorrow you'll do the research." He gets up with slow, measured movements that betray aches, and walks away. I lay in the hospital bed staring at the wall and trying to wrap my mind around the fact that _Potter_ made me laugh.

x

On Sunday everything is wrapped up. There is but some political details left to sort out, and I finally find a while to drop by the library and select a read that might chase the pictures away from my mind. It is the irony of (my) life that even the simplest desire is a reason enough for the Fate to stick out an unhelpful foot and make me stumble right into some kind of mess.

This particular mess consists of two students that should by all rights be in a safe location where the war is but an imaginary subject and a word often printed in newspapers. They are having an argument – which is, I suspect, the natural state of mind for them. However, they are having it in a civilised manner and quietly enough to not attract the attention of Pince, who looks very grief-stricken and weepy today. I am afraid it has something to do with the _un_fortunate demise of Argus Filch, but that is a train of thought I do not, in absolutely any case, wish to follow.

I remain in the shadows, dearly wishing that they would ask for input before they initiate a bond that could do more damage than help, but it is not my place to meddle, and I believe this particular tandem to be (together) both intelligent and powerful enough to accomplish what they set out to do. The trouble is that neither is sensible enough in the _deciding what to do_ phase… Potter's idea of a bond might have been… _wacky_, but it has some merit. Now it is up to Draco Malfoy, _the son of Lucius Malfoy_, to select the binding ritual, which Harry Potter, _the son of James Potter_ intended to perform, fully expecting it to be Dark. The image is enough to make the hair on my forearms stand up.

"No. No, I have no idea which protections are there, so we must do it tonight," Potter claims in an urgent whisper.

"That's not enough time!" Draco protests. He is, naturally, right. He has a good basis in Dark Arts, and an inkling of what kinds of disasters might happen should there be the smallest mistake during the ritual itself, but Potter, as usually, does not listen.

"It will have to be," he says in that no-nonsense monotone he stole from Binns and enhanced with deadliness the ghost has – despite his state – yet to reach. It sounds perverse, coming from such a young person, but is strangely fitting for the wizard who cut up Bellatrix Lestrange in front of me. If the capability to feel fear had not been scared out of me, Potter would make me shiver.

"Potter… I don't want to die."

A pair of dull green eyes measure Draco with detached interest, but the boy ignores the whining. He takes a leather-bound book out of the Slytherin's hands and looks at the displayed page.

"Tell me about it." Yes, I would say Potter knows all there is to know about not dying.

Malfoy's face tightens into what would have been a scowl but for the training he received from his father to not show his emotions.

"Read it for yourself," he growls, deciding to interpret the scoff his way, and then adds in a dark undertone: "It would be a miracle if you don't maim both of us, anyway."

Potter blinks and gazes at the blonde dispassionately.

"Even after… everything… you can't stop underestimating me. Never mind, though… tell me what _you_ know about the bond, not what the book says." The little bugger is apparently much smarter than he would have us believe. He was faster than even I on the uptake this time. It is understandable that Malfoy, having been brought up in an atmosphere of suspicion bordering on paranoia, would select something he has already at the very least heard of.

"It was originally used by the custodians of underage Heads of influential Families." The Slytherin has calmed down and now speaks with resignation that I consider out of place. He should be either enthusiastic or worried, but… I suppose battle does strange things to people. I know it did strange things to me.

"You are physically younger than me, so we don't know whether it will take, but I think it's worth the try." That is certainly a different way than what I expected the boy to choose, but it fulfils all the requested parameters. That is an unexpected amount of trust in Potter he has, and at the same time I expect it is a (perhaps subconscious) wish to pass the big responsibilities onto someone else for the time being.

Although the words 'Potter' and 'responsible' in one sentence spell an impending catastrophe. I select a book and leave before I am too tempted to offer advice or simply forbid them any Dark magic.

x

The next time I meet Draco (and in this instance it is a deliberate meeting), it is on my way to an evening wrap-up Order congregation. While I have time to spare before the cream of the 'right side' of the war sours, I do not have much to say to him – he seems to have even less to say to me, since he attempts to skulk away in the shadows before I even attempt to address him.

"Good evening, Lord Malfoy," I say quietly, and watch as he flinches at the title he is used to belonging to his father. The sooner he accepts the reality of his standing, the better. After all, he is going to surrender his independence to the very person who ground his father's skull to a sauce with a rock.

Barbaric, was it not? Perhaps – since my mind keeps insisting on rehashing the events of that night – Potter's actions did not leave me as unaffected as would be desirable. I attempted to make myself believe that my rather drastic change of outlook on the brat was enough shift of perception to undergo at one time, but it seems that I lost and/or gained another few marbles out on Hogwarts ramparts. And, to be fair, also the day after.

Looking into Draco's eyes, it is apparent that he chose the easiest way to deal – denial. He pretends that nothing happened, and therefore there is nothing to react to… but the little things he can ignore are going to take their toll on his blithe, carefully built garden of ignorance.

"Hello, Professor Snape," he replies, and lets bright, artistically fake smile stretch his lips. I scowl at him – at least my facial expressions tend to be more honest – but before I can speak he waves at me and, shaking his head with mock-pity announces: "I hope you enjoy your meeting."

He turns on his heel and walks away, white-blond hair shining in shadows where (specific) others would have long since become invisible even to my eyes. It is my fault in a way – I have learnt long ago that if I kick puppies, I shall expect them to bite me when they grow up. Well, Malfoy grew up. He is right, of course, though I wonder how did he find out about the Order – was it Potter who told him? Why would he… ah, of course.

The meeting is beginning to look up, ever so slightly. There is at least a hint of anticipation now, something not dull and common that I am a part of, while not dangerous to myself (at least not in the uncertain impending death by torture way) and, best of all, going right over the heads of 'The Gryffindors'. I walk into an almost full room, where the congregation waits for the last few stragglers and their Headstraggler… Lares and Penates, I must be worse off than I suspected if I allow such insolence – even from me and only within my mind. That little bit of violence shook me up worse than I would believe… but _he_ was truly _just a boy_…

…and what is he now? Where is he? My eyes bore into the crowd; there are fewer here today then there were before. The Order minus all those seriously wounded and dead. They are… strangely tense. Some look happier than they should, some depressed, and the rapid difference causes a low buzz of strained holds on magic to permeate the air. There is going to be schoolyard fisticuffs if someone doesn't sedate them, but I for one am going to lean back and enjoy the show.

x

"Someone must keep an eye on Harry at all times. He is able to fight off the possession faster now, but we cannot take a risk."

"The children-"

"They are very exceptional students, but I fear not a match to an angry Lord Voldemort."

"Are they in danger?"

"I love Harry as my own, Albus, but if he should hurt Ron or Ginny-" As one of your own, truly. Equal, but not quite so, is he not.

"There might be some minimal danger, naturally, but I think if Harry was overseen by an adult, it should be sufficient to prevent any harm coming to anyone." Except the boy himself. Dumbledore turns to me. I should have expected it to come to this, but I had too much on my mind to think about what I am going to do next to make myself useful enough to not be kicked out. "Incidentally, Severus, your exposure as a spy for our side has put you into a precarious situation. I cannot in good conscience send you out on a mission-"

Which you never did before, either, except the spying ones, of course. Funny, how the knowledge that the Dark Lord's lackeys would kill me on sight finally inspires a hint of trust in my person.

"-and there is only so much you can do isolated in here. Therewithal, I have noticed that you have taken an unprecedented interest in young Harry." No. Just no. He cannot do this to me. It is not… no.

"I am merely wondering how the recent events influenced him," I reply almost evenly. My hands are fisted; fortunately I keep my nails short, lest I would likely draw blood.

"Then it would be beneficial for all, if you could watch him more closely. I trust you to keep the child out of trouble…"

I meet the boy's eyes across the room. Neither his face nor his posture gives away what he is thinking, but the mind behind those eyes reveals resigned acceptance; despite being insufficiently Occluded I cannot seem to get anything more.

"But what about Potter? He hates me."

The boy lifts one eyebrow in a sarcastic gesture of polite disbelief. Indeed, when were anyone's emotions a relevant argument with the Headmaster? A child starved, occasionally beaten and brought up to think of himself as sub-human was perfectly alright, as long as it 'Lived' to obey. Perhaps, though, I am merely being unfair due to my own bitterness. Dumbledore should have known, but 'should have' is very far from 'did'. I just do not feel that ignorance excuses him. Us… I feel Potter's eyes boring into me across the sea of people, but I cannot look at him lest I expose him to the Headmaster. I am still not sure why I cover for him – feeling sympathetic is not usually enough to make me stand up against my Master.

"Harry will understand, Severus. We cannot afford to waste our resources. You might try to be a bit nicer to him, though – he does have enough on his plate."

It means that in the great scheme of things, we are worth just enough to keep alive until the next battle. It should be a tough revelation, but Potter does not seem to be shocked. He gives me a cross between a bitter smile and a smirk when I glance in his direction, and shrinks back into his shadow.


	5. Headquarters Inhabitants

A/N: Thank you, all my reviewers, for your feedback! Compared to the previous chapters, it was very encouraging. I hope you all continue to enjoy the story (and continue to review)!  
Brynn

x

Headquarters Inhabitants

x

After an average night of a few not _overly_ disturbing nightmares I pack my sparse personal belongings, several books and my not-so-emergency kit. I hate leaving this place almost as much as I hated moving in some fifteen years ago. Fortunately, it's going to be here for me in September – at least I hope so. Potter needs to come back for his sixth year (apparently – to me it seems more like he needs to be drugged, bound to a bed, and kept a non-stop watch over), and so I assume that I will be _permitted_ to teach again.

I meet the whole squadron in the Great Hall – apart from Potter and Draco, there is a number of tag-alongs (a pasty Lupin; disturbingly subdued Tonks, who just recently returned to the castle; the eldest Weasley son with his half-_veela_; and, much to my surprise, Amos Diggory). Dumbledore twinkles at the group, as though their bedraggled state, scowls, and general cloud of darkness hovering over them were a happy picture. The single person in the room excepted from this standard is the young Lord Malfoy. I could count the times I have seen the boy smile since he started Hogwarts on my fingers; therefore the expression on his face makes me anxious.

Before I have the time to contemplate whether Potter attempted the ritual yesterday, and whether it was successful (it was not catastrophic – both brats still are alive and have kept all their extremities as far as I can see), Moody steps forth and just has to open his mouth.

"About time, Snape!" Never mind that no one bothered to tell me an actual time. "What took you so long? Packed all your torture instruments?"

I keep my mouth shut, and the group before me seems perfectly content now that the evil Death Eater was put down (metaphorically, of course; I shudder to think how ecstatic they would be should it happen literally). Potter, predictably, maintains his expression blank, Draco's smile does not change. Ironic, how all that boy truly needed to be happy was Potter… there is so much wrong with that statement that I refuse to contemplate it further.

"Alastor, there is no call for such antagonism. Severus was probably simply delayed…" Dumbledore placates pointlessly. Such virtuous wizard he is, the Headmaster, is he not…

I watch as the group of seven arranges themselves into a circle. A fleeting touch to my forearm guides me to my place.

"We go by Portkey. Password-activated," someone whispers to me covertly, unheard by anyone else under the rustle of clothes and belongings. I appreciate the information, dreading what my reaction should be if I was unexpectedly portkeyed somewhere against my will. Curse the first person I see upon my arrival, most likely.

I glance to the side; it is Potter. Well, he would know all about being unexpectedly portkeyed to places. I grit my teeth and refuse to feel grateful to the ingrate. Draco locks his arm with Potter with astounding familiarity; William steps up to my other side, and-

"Marchpane angels!"

-we are tugged away from Hogwarts in a swirl of colours.

x

The first person who I see upon my arrival (not hexed, thanks to Potter) is Molly Weasley. She gushes over her son, his girlfriend, Tonks, Lupin, pats Diggory on his back, and is quickly staved off by my glare. She stops and searches for the main reason of this trip, undoubtedly to shower him with her formidable and overwhelming _kindness_, but Potter is nowhere in sight and Draco has disappeared with him. I silently curse – what is the idiot thinking? I am supposed to baby-sit him!

Holding my luggage in my hand, I walk up the stairs to the room that was designated for me in the past. It is unoccupied, although in a state of disrepair that suggests there are no house elves in the building. Probably a wise step, after the last one effectively killed the Black mutt and almost managed to do in six students and reveal the Prophecy to the Dark Lord. It is somewhat surprising that the Weasley matron did not keep it clean here, as she does everywhere else, but I suppose that there must be some residual _Darkness_ left over after I have slept here a few times. No good _Light_ wizard or witch would come close…

I suppress a sigh and get on with making the place liveable.

x

"Professeur…" The French witch inclines her head in a greeting. I did not expect her to, and refuse to appreciate it, because if I do, I might find that I miss it tomorrow when it does not reoccur.

"Miss Delacour," I reply and sit down at the table. I receive food, and no one stands up to leave. Almost like Hogwarts, except that it is not.

"Morning, sir," says William. I nod to him, because speaking with a full mouth is too undignified to even think of. The food is good – Molly's creation, undoubtedly. Laughter comes from the corridor, and a moment later a lanky red-head appears in the doorway, tugging on the arm of someone out of sight. He comes to a rapid halt as soon as he notices me, and his companion bumps into him from behind, pushing him across the threshold. I pretend not to notice.

"Good morning, Ron, Hermione," Molly calls from the opposite part of the room, and gestured the two teens to sit down. Ronald hesitates, but Granger eyeballs him, huffs, and takes the place next to William. Apparently Delacour is not among the best-liked either.

"Don't be an idiot, Ron," William says offhandedly. The youngest Weasley male's reaction is a grimace. I see that there is one thing that can quench even his infamous appetite. How charming that it would be my humble self.

I finish the dish at my leisure, although with the amount my body has learnt to expect it does not take more than a minute. Silently I stand up and walk away from them, nodding slightly to the couple who deemed me worthy of a hint of respect. Another perfectly normal start to a perfectly normal day.

x

I locate Potter in the early afternoon, ambushing him after he leaves the kitchen. His hands are wrinkled and wet, suggesting that he was washing the dishes, which is a minor shock in itself. However, right behind him exits a chuckling Draco Malfoy, carrying a dishcloth.

"…there's a back garden through that door," Potter says, pointing into the shadowy hallway. "But it's warded, and no one bothered to un-ward it. So, I suppose, you should speak to Mrs Weasley."

Draco, predictably, scowls at the mention of the matron of the red-headed clan. Potter lifts an eyebrow at him. Draco growls and his shoulders slump, but then he nods and takes off in the direction he came from. Potter watches him go, with one corner of his mouth lifted in a bitter half-smile.

"What was that?" I ask evenly. It would not do to show how shocked I am at both Potter's and Draco's willingness to help with the chores, but also at the almost easy rapport they seem to have. Potter looks at me, and his blank mask slides on his face with no visible effort.

"Housework issues. Draco's first touch with humility – I must say that explains why he always was such a stuck up prick. Slytherins' idea of parenting is more than a little fucked up."

I am thunderstruck by how many insults (and mostly intelligent ones at that) Potter managed to fit into the answer to such a simple question. That used to be my talent. He even managed to offend me.

"And I suppose your parents did better? Or the mutt perhaps?" I grit my teeth as I listen to myself. That was uncalled for. But Potter needs to-

Needs what? What am I really trying to achieve here? Does all that hatefulness have an actual point?

He simply stares at me, as if waiting at what I might say next. I do not have anything to say. The standstill continues on for about a minute. Then Potter reaches into his pocket, recovers a small object and hands it to me. I take it more or less reflexively. It is a steel ring, a simple circle without any adorning.

"It's connected to mine." He lifts his hand and shows off an identical steel band with a selective Notice-me-not Charm placed on it. "It is a one-way link monitoring Dark magic cast on me and the level of pain. It alerts you by beeping – the louder the sound, the higher the level." What a clever – and outrageously illegal – way of getting me off his back. Since it works for me, I commend the effort (even though it was most likely Draco's knowledge put to practise). Nevertheless, I cannot simply let this go. Dumbledore gave me a task, and good little tame ex-Death Eater spies do not neglect their duties (especially if they wish to stay alive).

"And what, pray tell, Potter, do I do when _he_ possesses you in the middle of your fanclub, and I am currently brewing on the other side of the house?"

The blankness of the boy's expression remains unaltered.

"There's a Gorgon Hex with distant activation on them – it's timed to half an hour." I scowl and he hastens to add: "And also one-way."

I gaze at him with suspicion, trying to gauge to truth from his emotionless face (either way I am checking the artefact's enchantments the first thing back in the privacy of my room). Life was easier when Potter was readable. These new circumstances might be advantageous as far as the war effort is concerned, but sure threaten to drive me out of my mind.

"Why would you go to these lengths?" I know we both know exactly how far-reaching the consequences of this might be. I know he detests my presence – Merlin knows the sentiment is returned multi-fold – but to go so far he would have to hate me with great passion.

He does not look passionate about it.

"It would have been necessary either way. You couldn't destroy or bypass my personal ward before, and I very much doubt you would be able to do it in the future. You – or anyone the Headmaster dooms to the Boy-Who-Lived Watch needs a way to stop me if Voldemort-" I fail to suppress a shudder, "-possesses me. But I tell you this, Snape…"

Potter takes a step closer to me, near enough so that I can _smell_ him. His presence, even his proximity, fail to intimidate me, but I am very aware of the promise of future pain his piercing gaze silently conveys. I saw what he did to the Lestranges and to Lucius. I would rather avoid a face-off.

"If you use it without need, I will make you wish you never looked at me askew."

The threat is delivered in a cold neigh-whisper that crawls over my skin and burrows in my bones. Potter's violence is all the more dangerous because it is unsuspected and unobserved. Despite Fudge's smear-campaign from the last year, all those who would believe me that Potter threatened me would consider it within his rights. After all, what am I but an ex-Death Eater?

It is obvious that the brat does not have much experience with this, because, instead of sweeping away with an artful swish of overabundance of cloth (which, admittedly, is what I would do), he remains standing in front of me, waiting for an answer. But what can I tell him, when we are both aware that I cannot defend myself with anything but sarcasm and insults?

"I have no desire to saddle myself with a stony version of yourself, Potter. I hope I will not have to see you until September." In an ideal case I would not have to see him in September either, but, as that case would probably entail one of us being dead, I give up on that and console myself with the knowledge that there is no earthly way how he could have got an O on his Potions O.W.L.

"I see that we understand each other, _Professor_." He nods to me and walks away quietly.

I so wish that it would be so simple. Unfortunately, as Draco is currently in Potter's custody, I feel obligated to keep an eye on him. Despite our recent unfortunate clash (where I was being a bastard to him, and he pulled _dignity_ on me – he must have stolen some from Potter), Draco Malfoy is one of my Slytherins, and there will be a cold day in Hell before I allow Gryffindors to harass him without retribution.

x

I spent the entire evening formulating a plan, only to see it crushed the next morning, by a cheerful floating head of a Headmaster, which _asked_ me (read ordered me), with an insane amount of patronising squeezed into those few sentences, to replenish Pomfrey's store of potions.

"And how do you propose I do that, when I have to watch your Golden Boy twenty-four hours a day?"

Dumbledore chuckles benignly, and the head shakes.

"My dear boy, but you are not watching him right now?"

I am, but there is no way I would admit it to the Headmaster. The rings are way too useful (I grant Potter their necessity) to let Dumbledore know about them. His ideals are beneficial in an icon, but detrimental for a leader of warriors, and downright destructive to pawns such as Potter and me. I now understand, however unwillingly, that we both recognise that some evil has to be committed by few so that the many are not subjected to it. By some cruel twist of fate, both the brat and I find ourselves amongst those 'few'. Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, disregards the harsher facets of reality in favour of his idealism.

I sneer, with the words 'fucking self-righteous arsehole' on my carefully Occluded mind.

"Then what do you suggest I do with him while I am brewing?"

"Well, Severus…" His eyes twinkle, and I just know what is coming next. I brace myself against the sheer inanity of the idea. "Why don't you utilise the children's skills in the laboratory? I do not doubt they would make the chore easier on you."

No, I do not doubt either – the complete opposite, though. There is no way I am going to let Potter anyway near a laboratory with ingredients unless I am already dying and will not have to stick around for the outcome. Weasley ditto. Granger I might, but I am hesitant about Draco – I _have_ misjudged the boy in the past; under Potter's protection (_control_), he is likely akin to a delayed-action mine. Although I might use this as a reason to get him away from Potter…

"Indeed, Headmaster," I answer with a rather unhealthy dose of sarcasm. "I shall _somehow_ deal with the oaves, and Pomfrey shall have her potions. After all, we cannot forget that I am still the resident miracle-maker, can we."

I hear a chuckle escape from someone behind me. I was – foolishly – unaware of the presence in the room, and that worries me far more than the humiliation I am to face – after all, I am no stranger to humiliation.

"Perhaps I was wrong, and you are more diligent in your duties than I expected you to be…" By the statement I recognise who the person laughing at me is. I grit my teeth, though this time it is not at the brat. Dumbledore keeps twinkling, and I figure that the last statement was instead of an apology. How subhuman must I be regarded as to not warrant an apology (from the Headmaster's point of view, of course)?

"Perhaps you were," I tell him bitterly and sever the connection. I turn around and glare at Potter, who is staring at the fireplace with a frown.

"…arsehole…" I hear him say, and it is obvious that the term is not applied to me in this instance. Interesting. He finally notices me observing him; I lift an eyebrow.

Potter crosses his legs and looks dispassionately back.

"Won you points with the coot," he remarks. While that is certainly truth, I cannot fathom what drove him to turn up in the lounge at eight in the morning. He sighs, leans back in his armchair and lolls his head to the side so that he can see me. "I heard your voices from the hallway," he states. It still does not explain why a teenager is awake so early in the morning during holidays… then again, I should be sleeping in as well, if I was anything like my colleagues. Does Potter have nightmares?

I would not be surprised.

"Well, this plan of yours blew quite spectacularly, Potter. Any new ideas?" Pity I cannot take points from him now. I need some venting and Potter does not look like he would care. He just sits there, his forehead scrunched the same way it is when he is trying to fabricate a sensibly-sounding answer to a question in test. The success is also about the same.

"Look," he says after a while, "we know we have some pretty huge differences, and you have transferred the hatred you felt for my father to my eleven-year-old self, which was really rather childish, but I digress…"

The truth of that statement is indisputable, but that does not mean I let it go. I will not be spoken to like that-

"The point is, I don't feel like arguing with you."

I give up on the retort I had prepared. I am just as tired of Potter's eternal stupidity, ignorance and insolence. I would have appreciated time without him, but it is apparently not possible. The Headmaster is stuck on keeping us within our room, and Pomfrey is too far away to scramble us from the floor and re-attach any limbs, therefore it would be a good idea to learn to disregard each other.

"Fine, Potter," I say, with some effort to keep my tone even. "Your first task is to come up with something to do in the laboratory that does not involve potions, ingredients, food, animals, your clique… or any spells." Merlin knows what he would be able to do if I allowed him to use magic in there. Demolish the house, most likely.

"Fine, Snape. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."


	6. Slytherins

A/N: Thank you all for your feedback! Keep it coming!

x

Slytherins

x

He arrives about half an hour later, totally unconcerned about such an appalling lack of punctuality. Trying to avoid one another is a nice concept, but we must have rules, and we must adhere to them, and being fifteen minutes late is simply unacceptable.

However, when Draco comes in behind him (and I belatedly realise that I have not specified that Potter cannot bring him), the rather offending and loud reproach I have prepared is reduced to: "Either be on time, or send a message, Potter."

"Teach us the Messenging Spell," Draco replies, setting a bag of – Salazar forbid – _books_ on an empty counter.

"Please," Potter adds, nudging Draco.

"Please," Draco repeats dutifully, but with a scowl that rivals mine on a good day, and mumbles something that I do not catch, but Potter obviously does.

"It's a question of necessity," he explains to the Slytherin, who should be smarter by default. The quality of my house seems to be steadily decreasing. I shiver as I remember the 'clean-up' after the battle and the number of my students that had been killed there. It was a slaughter of the worst kind… I have not yet viewed the statistics, but I fear Slytherin is going to be very reduced in the next two or three years. "Besides, I've had half a decade to get used to it, and the principle isn't worth your life."

They turn to me and I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is not how I imagined I would spend this morning – I have potions to brew… though, Draco should be capable of brewing some of the more simple ones…

"Madam Pomfrey is going to need five standard batches of Pepper-up Potion, Mr Malfoy."

That will occupy him for about five hours and I will have the time to come up with Skele-Gro, and maybe even Bruise-healing Salve. I just hope that Potter will not be bored enough to explode something.

"Are you sure you want _me_ to brew it?" Draco asks uncertainly. Lazy, is he? He can take it as another lesson in humility, Merlin knows he needs it.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy, I am sure."

He nods at me, exchanges a look with Potter, and they both shrug.

"The spell has higher priority," Potter remarks. He is a weird Gryffindor, handling with lives and favours.

"Both of you do know the Patronus Spell, is that correct?"

They both agree, Potter with a measure of surprise, and Draco seeks to explain.

"Father made me learn it when he found out you could do it. Besides, it was handy with hordes of dementors around the Manor." He shudders, and Potter briefly puts his hand on his shoulder. It is a strange gesture, almost like one could expect between friends.

"Then this will make the job easier," I say, breaking into their 'moment'. "Do not share this spell with anyone; it is one of the Order secrets."

x

The brats amaze me by learning the Patronus Messenging Spell so fast that I almost find it unfair to keep Draco working for five hours. I do not inform them of that, of course. I am next mystified by Potter delving into one of the books he brought and remaining engrossed for the entirety of the time it takes to brew five batches of Pepper-up.

I would like to know what is so gripping, but the little bastard keeps the text wrapped in a cover of newspaper, claiming that we are in potions laboratory and books are wont to be damaged if he does not treat them with caution. It must be the first time in his life when Potter 'treats a book with caution'.

Once the jars with ingredients are back on their shelves and the cauldron is clean, Draco takes Potter and they both retreat to the furthest corner, cast a Silencing Sphere and proceed to argue. I try to block them out, but it is hard, especially since I would very much like to know what is it they discuss so heatedly (at least in Draco's case; Potter once again does not seem emotional, merely adamant).

They manage to occupy themselves until dinner, skipping lunch, and then I remain solitary for a few blithe moments. It will not last long. I have to go and eat, lest Molly risks coming to my room to force-feed me.

x

At quarter past eleven I finally finish the last cauldron of Wound-cleaning Potion, and go make a round of the house. My body has become so accustomed to these nightly excursions that I will not be able to fall asleep without it.

Everywhere is dark and quiet, with the exception of Tonks's room, which I refuse to further contemplate. I escape the faint echo that leaks through the shoddy Silencing Charms and continue my walk upstairs… until I notice a sliver of orange light under the library door.

I should have learnt not to assume, but I fully anticipate finding a trio of Gryffindors or any combination of its members until I spot a lone Draco Malfoy sitting on a chaise transfigured from one of the straight-back chairs. The boy has his hair bound in a ponytail to keep it out of his eyes as he leans over a book and chants something in (most likely) French. The Darkness of the magic makes the hair on my arms rise.

I step up to him, but he ignores me until he has completed the charm, and then turns to me, not bothering to take the tip of his wand away from his temple.

"Draco?! What do you think you are doing?!"

He straightens and gives me the expression he has up till this summer reserved for Potter.

"Do not assume such familiarity with me, _Professor Snape_." To prevent me from keeping a mental advantage, he stands up. I realise that the times when I could tower over this boy are gone. I am still a foot taller than Potter, but Potter is tiny. Draco stands easily at height equal to mine, and I do not doubt that physically he is stronger. Nevertheless, he is very young and very inexperienced in mind games.

"It is Lord Malfoy to you when without class, and Mr Malfoy while within," he states. I grimace at him bitterly – I asked for that when I first called him by that blasted name. I was never one for attempting to avoid conflict, especially if it meant that I had to admit to a fault of mine. Something in my nature drives me to aggravate nearly each bud of animosity until it grows in a full-out hatred. That was what happened with Black and both Potters.

This new Potter seems like it will not work on him, but Draco can still be pushed around too easily.

"_Lord Malfoy_, what are you doing?"

"You have no authority over me here, _Professor_," he replies coldly. I might have to re-evaluate my opinion of him. "That title is a personal courtesy based upon our history, which I am not as quick to forget as you seem to be. You are not my teacher here, and neither are you a Death Eater with the capability and intention of informing my father, the Dark Lord and his lackeys of my perceived misdemeanours."

I am struck mute. He must have rehearsed that. Must have. My rants at inept students are infamous for such eloquence and notorious difficulty to understand, but they are rarely spontaneous. Can I be anticipated so easily? Or is there far more in Draco Malfoy than anyone is aware of? Both are hard to believe…

Still, what could make this… this _simpleton_ cast a Dark Curse on himself?!

"I am trying to help you, stupid child!" How unappreciative can the brats be!

I find the answer to that _rhetorical_ question in the next moment, when the tip of Draco Malfoy's wand touches my Adam's apple.

"Don't take that tone with me, Snape. Potter had no parents to deal with your attacks at him, but I have a guardian. One that you _don't_ want to see pissed off."

I scoff.

"You think Potter would be bothered about you?"

To my great consternation, he laughs.

"You are blind, Snape. Blind, deaf, and with a selective memory. You can't hope to understand Potter… or me."

He shoves me. I stagger backwards, keep myself from falling, but Draco has effectively cleared his way to the exit. He strides across the room, carefully keeping the book he has been reading close to his body, preventing me from Summoning it.

"Draco Malfoy, come back here this instant!" I bellow, unconcerned about waking the inhabitants of the house, as the Slytherin in front of me has undoubtedly cast a Silencing Charm on the room.

He pauses and smirks at me.

"I had an E on my Potions O.W.L, Snape. I can't be arsed to suck up to you."

I stare at the back of the retreating boy. When did he start using such crude language? This cannot be Potter's influence – Potter does use profanities, but only in times of profound distress. I have never known Draco to be vulgar.

Then his last statement hits me, and I involuntarily sit down on the abandoned chaise. Draco had an E? He is the second best student in my class! I am going to have an entire class consisting of… Granger?

x

Thursday passes similarly as Wednesday. Potter and Draco are sequestered in the far corner of the laboratory, hidden behind their Silencing Sphere. They draw diagrams and schemes of something I have never come across (or something they are grossly misunderstanding).

I notice that Draco is much quieter than yesterday. He speaks only when he has to, keeps looking at his hands or knees, and when he needs Potter's attention, he captures it by tugging at his sleeve. I am worried, but I have to concentrate on potions. I resolve to find out what is wrong with him and put him right before the damage becomes irreversible.

With this goal in mind I return to my room after dinner, don robes that don't smell of potions, Disillusion myself, and go to the library, which has become (to Weasley's ever-growing horror) the semi-official children's common room when they were banned from the lounge.

I remain unnoticed, helped by the fact that I walk in during an argument. From what I understand, it is a fairly typical Malfoy-Weasley, pureblood-Muggleborn and Slytherin-Gryffindor confrontation, with Granger indignant about some slur, Ginevra pointing her wand at Draco, Ronald on the verge of a physical attack…

…and Potter sitting on the chaise, watching.

"If you strike him, I will hex you…" Potter says to his best friend. Weasley does not seem concerned, until Potter adds: "with something that Hermione can't counter." Draco sniggers at the fast retreat the red-haired menace calls upon hearing that. "Draco, wipe that expression off your face." Draco's smug smirk remains until Potter turns to glare at him. Then it is wiped instantly. "You will keep these comments to yourself. If the urge to share them is too overwhelming for you to withstand, write it down into a journal or something. That means _not_ on a piece of paper you leave lying around…"

Ah, so that explains the scrimmage. Draco has had some smart comment about Weasley's intelligence, appearance or financial situation, or whatever it is he considers particularly amusing today, and Weasley felt it within his right to defend himself the only way he knew how to – with a physical counter-attack. Gryffindors are notoriously easy to aggravate – therefore the perfect targets of copious point-subtraction.

Draco adopts a customary shrewd look, which totally foils his attempt to smile. The boy could not look innocent if his life depended on it.

"And don't look for loopholes," Potter says from behind a book. "I don't care about technicalities." He does not even bother to look and check whether Draco actually _is_ planning something. Then again, I would not have had to look, either.

"Why are you standing up for the ferret?! He insulted Hermione-"

"He did," Potter admits calmly, not sparing Weasley a glance. Draco slinks over to the chaise staying close to the book-cases, as far away from Weasley as possible. Such pitiful, petty cowardice. He should be ashamed, but Draco's first priority was always his own well-being, and cowardice is his way of self-preservation.

"Ha! You know he was wrong!" Weasley exclaims. His sister rolls her eyes, considers the argument closed, and disappears between the shelves. Granger sighs, sits on the carpet Indian-style and hides her face in her hands. Potter moves slightly, giving Draco enough space to sit next to him.

"Yes, he was wrong." Draco actually looks contrite at the gentle admonishment. "You should have let Hermione insult him back."

I have to cover my mouth to prevent a chuckle from escaping. Such a genius solution – allow Granger to insult Draco. An eye for an eye, a truly Gryffindor concept. Weasley makes a fish-impression, which is the first thing Granger sees when she finally braces herself enough to look. She immediately returns to hiding her face, muttering and shaking her head in exasperation.

"You… You Slytherin!" Weasley spits at Potter and storms out of the library, nearly knocking into me. Granger looks up again when the door slams shut.

"And that," she states wearily, "was Ron's idea of insult."

x

Granger, Ginevra and Draco actually come to a tentative truce before the girls excuse themselves and Potter (who has spent the entire time reading and pretending he was not there, and stepped into the conversation only when it needed moderating) remains alone with Draco.

For a long time there is silence, which does not seem to bother either of them, and I am inclined to abandon this fruitless watch (it is obvious that Potter does not hurt Draco, and neither does he let the other Gryffindors hurt him), when Draco shuts the volume he has been perusing and loudly sets it on the table.

"You're such a bloody hero…" he grumbles.

"Am not," Potter replies easily (and blatantly untruthfully), turning a page. "I promised I'd take care of you – that includes not letting Ron harass you. It also includes teaching you to keep your mouth shut."

Draco contemplates the statement. It is true that most of his past problems were caused precisely by his inability to shut up, but up to now he ignored any advice he received concerning that subject. Why would he listen to Potter if he did not listen to me?

"Keep my mouth shut…" He says slowly, actually managing to drag Potter's gaze away from the text. "…are you sure you want that?"

Draco tries to pretend subduedness, but there is glint of warning of something underhanded in his eyes, and Potter recognises it. His response is weary.

"Positi-"

He never gets to finish it, because Draco moves forward and… Merciful bloody Merlin, he _kisses_ Potter. Bile is rising in my throat. I want to curse Potter for taking advantage of Draco, but it is far more likely that it is in fact Draco attempting to take advantage of Potter. I stay out of it, in the end, because it is none of my business, and I do not interfere in my students' love-lives as a rule.

I spin and hurry away, because this is something I definitely do _not_ want to witness. I am almost out of there, when there is a wet sound suggesting that they have separated. I cannot help but look.

They are sitting facing each other, breathing faster than normal, and Potter wards Draco off with a hand on his breastbone.

"The relationship between us will _not_ be romantic. You don't even like males, Draco. Find yourself a nice girl," he says evenly. If not even a molestation shakes that boy, there is something definitely wrong with him.

"But… you…" Potter what? Potter _likes_ men? Well, knock me over with a feather…

Merlin, I cannot believe I just used that phrase! Within my own brain, nonetheless. Witnessing that scene must have traumatised me. Potter does neither confirm nor deny it, which is as good as an admission. Odd, how these things work out. If I were to point out which of my students was homosexual, I would have guessed them exactly the other way around.

"We are not talking about me here, Draco," Potter speaks patiently, still keeping his palm on Draco's chest. It is an intimate gesture, but Draco allows it despite the refusal he has just faced. "You seek comfort – but I can only give you emotional comfort. Mental and physical you have to find elsewhere."

"B-but… why?" Draco asks, bemused. He apparently does not know what he really wants. Comfort, perhaps, and maybe he believed for a while that a relationship with Potter would grant it, but it just shows how limited his knowledge of people and war is. Potter is, fortunately, aware of it.

"Because I am not sane enough to be able to anchor you. And the rest is self-explanatory."

Draco looks down, slightly sad. Potter clasps his shoulder.

We are all blind, myself included. This boy is nothing like his father, and very little like his mother. He is an icon and a killer at a time when he rightly should be a child. I hate that he makes me pity him just as much as I hate that he makes me afraid. I despise how he confuses me, so bloody righteous and noble, and at the same time ruthless and cold-hearted when necessity calls for it.

I abhor that I cannot abhor him anymore. Everything was so simple, but he had to go and make a mess of it. He just makes a mess of everything. Merlin, I am so tired…

"I… I'm grateful to you, Harry," Draco says quietly. "I'm grateful you did it… I was not worth the bother to anyone else. And now you listen to me whinging and… making an idiot of myself."

So he does realise what Potter gave him, after all. I am implicated in that statement, but I could not have done anything to help him. In the end I am thankful that there was _someone_ to save at least one of my Slytherins.

"You're not an idiot," Potter tells him. "You're just confused. That's a perfectly normal state of mind. When you stop being confused… when everything is perfectly clear to you… then you have a problem."

I blanch. He should not know that. I know of one person who is like that – never confused about anything, always certain in his actions, always pinning mistakes on other people and punishing them… Absolute clarity. Absolute power. Absolute corruption.

Potter _knows_.

"Now go to sleep, and tomorrow you can check out the girls," he concludes and gives Draco a gentle push. The boy nods, mumbles something that might or might not have been 'Good night', and leaves.

"You can show yourself now."

He _knew_ I was here? _How_?

He would not answer me, though, so I spare myself the embarrassment and cancel the Disillusionment, hiding my exhaustion behind a blank mask.

"When Draco kissed me you went for the door. The Charm doesn't work so well when you're moving," he informs me. He is right, but I had not expected him to be _looking_ in such a situation. Maybe someday I will learn never to try and predict the brat.

"You are remarkably good at the parenting thing," I offer the historically first compliment to James Potter's only son. He does not seem taken aback by my sudden lack of resentment, rather merely doubtful of my motivation in pointing out his achievement.

"For having no example to follow, you mean?"

I inwardly wince – yes, that is what I rubbed his face in the day before yesterday, is it not?

"For being sixteen, in the centre of a war, saddled with a mentally unstable teenager, being less than stable yourself, having-"

"I think I got the point, Snape," he cuts me off, not bothering to hide his bitterness anymore (I have noticed, though, he does not show it to his friends). "I am a wonder-boy. Not much of a change, really."

Ah, yes. We do have common history, and I should not forget it, lest I do the mistake opposite to the one I did with Draco.

"I just meant that, for being seriously 'messed up', you do rather well."

He shrugs and his blank mask returns.

"Comes with the survival skills," he says flippantly. "I learnt to survive Draco Malfoy a long time ago. And to me it's easy – to me, everything is _perfectly clear_."

I gulp. He must be lying. Must be. If he is not… I refuse to contemplate the possibility.

"You are supposed to be the Boy-"

"-Who Lived, I know."

I gulp again and look around.

"You do not seem to be living much." I did not watch, but if I had watched, I would have seen how he had been stripped off his life, sliver by sliver, during this last year. Everything he enjoyed was taken from him until all that remained were his friends, and after the fight in the Ministry he fears that he will be the cause of their deaths.

"Did I ever?" he asks.

"Yes, you did."

He chuckles.

"Then I was a good actor."

I scoff at that. Yes, Potter's life was not all roses – in fact, it was mostly _not_ roses – but that is not an excuse for melodrama.

"Do not be trite, Potter. It does not become you-"

"And I always am what becomes me, am I not?" he cuts in. Piercing green eyes look straight at me, but there is no challenge in them, only resignation.

"You are not going to kill yourself one of these days, are you?" I feel it prudent to ask. A dead Saviour will not do us much good. He has experienced a lot of pain and has the outlook for more yet; on the other hand, he does not necessarily have motivation to fight, either.

"And make Voldemort happy?" He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. But…"

"But?"

With another shake of his head he passes me by on his way out.

"Nothing, Professor."

I am left alone to ponder what I witnessed here. Potter said all was perfectly clear to him.

Perfectly clear. Lies to his friends. Dislikes his authorities. Kills his enemies. Takes care of Draco. It does not sound simple, but it is. He said it when he talked to Draco, but I would wager now that he said it to me. He is not sane. To him, everything is clear.


	7. Insomniacs

Insomniacs 

Since the late-night conversation when I complimented Potter we have a more or less casual rapport (marked with caustic remarks aimed every which way), and 'watching' him is not such a terrible experience. He spends most of the time he is within my sight – I let him do what he wants at least half a day so that we stave off cabin fever as long as possible – studying, changing partners between Draco (most often), Granger, and Ginevra. He remains secretive about what he is learning, but the wards detect no use of Dark Arts and, unless that happens, I feel no duty to report it to the Headmaster.

It is different to become a conspirator after such a long time of serving conspirators, but I find that I rather enjoy it. Potter is more proficient at the game than I would ever have guessed. He is also more intelligent than anyone estimates him to be, hiding behind Granger's so obvious brilliance. She receives credit for everything clever the Golden Trio comes up with, but I am quite sure now that the most cunning ideas were Potter's in origin and passed of as group effort (which everyone automatically understood was the two boys being bullied around by the know-it-all).

Nevertheless, it takes a week before I decide to 'betray' Draco's confidence. At the ungodly hour of four in the morning, there are three of us in the kitchen – William, who is on duty, Potter, who I realise now is quite insomniac due to rather abhorrent nightmares, and myself. I am doped up on caffeine, having spent last evening (the New Moon) brewing Lupin's enhanced Wolfsbane.

"I caught Draco performing a Dark Curse on himself," I announce into the silence. Neither of them startles, and only William gapes at me incredulously.

"When was this?" Potter asks calmly, as though he had expected something like that. Judging by how much he knows Draco (better than I know him), he probably has.

"Last Wednesday."

Potter nods.

"Thanks. We had talked about it, but he didn't inform me that he actually did it… although I was quite certain he did." His words carry a hint of menace.

"Have you forbidden it?"

It has taken a lot of auto-suggestion, but in the end I have convinced myself that Potter _was_ a capable guardian for Draco, and have accepted his authority over the Malfoy heir. Theoretically, Potter is temporarily the Head of three influential families, but he exercises none of that vast political power. He is still in school, of course, but other people in his position would have already attended Wizengamot meetings and the such… it is a topic to discuss with him. I can quite well imagine that Dumbledore did not deign to inform him of his positions and Potter was not allowed to visit Gringotts to collect his inheritance.

"I haven't," he replies, pulling me out of my musing. "I actually… supported it. I had just hoped that he would inform me when he does do it." There is no anger in his voice, merely slight disappointment.

I think I understand now why Draco responds so well to his guidance – the expectations are reasonable, the punishments also, mistakes are explained, and Potter does not get angry at Draco. I think Draco might fear me, just as he once feared his father – respected him, but feared him. Potter, on the other hand, is patient. He encourages Draco and praises him for success, while not letting him become spoilt. There is no wonder the Slytherin looks up to him.

"You allowed him to practice Dark Arts?" William asks, alarmed yet – I note – not accusing.

Potter snorts. I have a distinct feeling that it would be hypocritical of him to forbid it.

"It was the Curse of Path Em, Bill."

I have never heard of it before, but William obviously has.

"Where have you learnt about _that_?!"

"We found a copy of Champollion's Hieroglyphs in the Black library the first night we were here."

William's jaw sinks.

"That's… that's worth…"

"More than the Burrow," Potter says sadly. "Yeah, Draco said so. Narcissa had raved about it when he first started taking Ancient Runes – she was quite mad that she couldn't access Grimmauld Place and recover it. As soon as Draco got here he made a beeline for it."

"He could read it?" William wonders. "It's French!"

"Draco is bilingual," I inform him. Potter nods, already aware of the fact. "He had a French governess as a child. By the time he was four he spoke fluently both languages."

"Nice," William acknowledges. "I started another language when I was thirteen, and learnt from books. It took me until twenty to be fluent." Well, naturally. Children learn faster, and by communicating. But we are getting off-topic.

"What is the 'Curse of Path M'?" I ask. William passes the question to Potter.

"It's one of Ptolemy's Charms, from the second Rosetta Stone."

"There is a _second_ Rosetta Stone?"

"There are three, actually," Potter says, surprised that I am not aware of it. But this is not material taught in the History of Magic, and my post-Hogwarts education is rather limited to Potions and Dark Arts. "The second and third are, naturally, hidden from Muggles, since they are quite revealing about the nature of magic. That is what makes Champollion's book so valuable – the Rosetta Stones are in a private collection of the Bouchards, so no one can read them, and the knowledge written there is revolutionary."

I gape at the two, still not over the realisation that I am in the middle of an intellectual debate with a Potter. I was aware that he is smarter than I thought him to be, but it is still disconcerting to see it in real life.

"What is so revolutionary about it?"

"It explains the evolution of magic users and magical society," William says, pouring himself a cup of tea and offering to refill my cup. I decline; the brew tastes like old socks (well, how I imagine old socks must taste). He puts the pot on the oven and turns back. Potter, in the meantime, draws a silhouette of a human body with a pencil and makes coloured marks (with the same pencil – I have not seen magic used this way before) on its axis.

"In the times of the beginnings of writing, magic wasn't clearly split on Light and Dark. It was regarded as Malicious, Neutral and Helpful. The Curse of Path Em is misnamed – or, rather, the translation of its name is incorrect. It used to be classed as Neutral."

"It feels Dark, though," I interrupt William's speech. He shrugs.

"That is possible. But the Egyptian system was different. They classed the_ Killing Curse_ as Neutral."

"It actually makes sense when you think about it," Potter says before I can voice my outrage at such misconceptions. "Cruciatus and Imperius are Dark _and_ Malicious, but Avada is not necessarily intentioned as harmful. The Ministry says it's the worst of the three, but I sort-of remember all three being cast on me, and Avada's not so bad. You just… black out. People die, but it doesn't hurt, and you don't watch yourself hurt other people."

It is true that in Death Eater circles, execution by the Killing Curse is considered merciful. It cannot be a bad death. Instantaneous.

Potter pushes the scheme he drew under my nose and sets to explain the colour-coded markings and how it relates to systemic vortices of energy, which the Sanskrit named Chakras.

x

At half past eight I am forced to endure the presence of the entire Potter clique including Draco, who troop down for breakfast. William has gone to catch up on his sleep, and Molly has kept glaring at the parchments strewn over the table until Potter put them together on a neat pile and stashed them on a bench.

The oaves seat themselves and delve into pancakes, with the notable exception of Potter, who declines the piled-up plate in the favour of a single dry toast and a mug of black coffee.

Ten headache-inducing minutes later, Granger's eyes bulge and she swallows heavily.

"You are married?!" she exclaims, cringes under my scowl, and adds: "Sir…" Which was _not_ what that scowl was supposed to achieve.

Potter bursts in laugh. I rest my elbows on the table and hide my face in my palms to prevent the brats from seeing the traces of my somewhat hysterical amusement.

"You are _married_, Severus?" Molly Weasley just _had_ to be the one to hear that, did she not.

"Have I said something wrong?" Granger wonders, frowning at Potter as if estimating his mental health. It is definitely deteriorating. I quash the laughter pulling on the corners of my mouth and face the girl.

"No, Miss Granger, I am not married. Neither am I engaged," I add before she gets ideas.

"But…" she gestures to my hand, where I wear the relatively new band. "You have a ring. You've never had a ring before." As if it was any of her business.

"That is true, Severus," Molly notes. "You never were one for jewellery."

"It's alright, Professor," Potter says, finally having calmed down. "According to the third Rosetta Stone-"

"_Third_ Rosetta Stone?!" I knew it. I knew Granger does not know everything.

"-the availability of magic and the simple solutions it provides cause magic users to cease exercising their logical thinking. It is a natural by-product of the additional abilities wizards have that they can't reason their way out of a paper-bag." He glances over at Granger, who imitates Ronald's fish-expression to a tee. "I am loath to say it, but Hermione seems to have contracted it."

"I do hope it is not terribly contagious."

"You seem to have avoided it all these years… or perhaps you have been immunised… is there somewhere I could be vaccinated?"

Granger looks so affronted that it is funny and the purebloods, unfamiliar with vaccination, were unable to follow the line of thought. Most of them probably have not noticed they were insulted. Who knew there was so much of a Slytherin in young Potter?

x

Two more weeks pass. Draco refuses to speak to me unless he absolutely has to. The two youngest Weasleys steer clear from me and Granger tries to keep our interaction at absolute minimum, which I welcome. Other than a brief conversation over a goblet of Wolfsbane Potion I have not talked to Lupin at all – in that one instance I assured him that Potter is a brat, getting on my nerves, and we are both dealing with it. He did not pry further, as it matched exactly what he expected to hear.

In the span of twenty-six days, Draco has grown to… dare I say it… love Potter. It is incontestably obvious and, strangely, the entire clique has accepted it, with less or more reproaches (more in Ronald's case). They started including him in their activities – I suspect the joint influence of Potter and the Curse of Path Em. It would have worn off a long time ago, but not before giving the boy a unique insight and making him just that bit wiser.

It is a huge difference.

He spends an immense amount of time with Amos Diggory, though almost never in Potter's presence. Amos does not blame the brat for Cedric's death, but I suspect Potter fears having to face his own conscience in such a confrontation and feels ill-prepared for that.

It already seems as if we shall survive August without interference from the Dark Lord when, on Tuesday night, I awake to an ear-splitting screech. It comes from my hand.

"_Euryale_!" I bark at the ring and leap for the door, ignoring my state of undress. Half-naked I run through the halls, mostly empty until I nearly collide with staggering Draco Malfoy in front of Potter's and his door. His eyes are wide and breathing quickened – glaring signs of panic.

"Where is Potter? What happened?"

He shrinks away from me, huddles so close to the wall that it looks as though he was hugging it and shakes like a leaf.

"Draco!"

"H-he t-told me t-to run if he acted weird!" he cries. I curse and walk into the room. The sides are clearly distinguishable; Draco's dependence on house elves is apparent in the strewn clothes (borrowed _Muggle_ clothes, though he seems to be comfortable wearing them). Potter has a closed trunk shoved under his bed, jeans and shirt he wore during the day slung over the back of the chair and a pair of trainers in pitiful condition at the foot of his bed. That is _all_ his movable property.

Draco has, somewhere, several mansions full of things.

I hear shuffling from the doorway – the boy must have followed me – and ignore it. Potter lies on the bed, caught in the middle of a seizure; a trickle of blood that escaped the curse oozing down his jaw and staining the bed linen.

I lift my wand, just in case.

"_Stheno_," I say quietly, very unappreciative of Potter's warped sense of humour in setting the passwords, but glad that he thought to add one to release him. Otherwise I would have to spend twenty-eight minutes standing here, psychically readying myself for a possible attack.

Potter's back arches further. His mouth opens in a soundless scream. I do not have time to check for a Silencing Charm – I have to keep my wand trained of him, so that I will not be surprised by deadly hundred pounds of a homicidal psychopath-possessed teenager.

"Aguamenti," Draco yells and aims a stream of water around me. It hits Potter in the chest, spraying his face and a quarter of the room around him. He sags, though, and it seems as though he lost consciousness, except that he is breathing too rapidly. He opens his eyes.

"It's just a vision, Snape, not possession," he rasps. "'s alright."

"Potter!" I bellow. "I was awoken in the middle of the night by your damn ring blaring to high Heavens! I demand to know what is happening!" It comes across as anger, which I am glad for, because otherwise at least two of my students would have seen me worried about the Gryffindor Golden Boy, and I would never live that down.

With great effort, he pushes himself off the wall and rolls to his right sight, curling slightly to relax his backbone, which had been unnaturally stretched during the fit. He spits a bit of pink liquid and glares at Draco and myself.

"Well, yeah, it fucking hurts like a living Hell, you bastard!"

This is not real anger either and I let him get away with it, only this once, only because he is in pain and I am more concerned about his physical state than about his language.

"Be still, you heathen," I growl. It can alter the results of a medical scan if he moves.

Being completely motionless apparently aggravates the muscle trauma, so I hurry and have it done quickly. The Gorgon curse probably saved him from the worst of it, but it is still equal to one or two minutes of Cruciatus.

"You are such a pest, Potter," I grumble and Summon a vial of freshly brewed Muscle-relaxant. It is the best thing available (I deal myself a few choice words within my mind for the lack of foresight) in this blasted house. It would have been more potent if it had time to mature.

"'know," he says, weak after the adrenaline has drained. "'n freak. God knows 've been told 'ften 'nough."

"No self-pity," I admonish, catch the vial from the mid-air and put it to his lips. "Drink, then sleep."

He drinks, but does not obey the second part of the command.

"Dumbledore," he says, takes a few deep breaths, and clarifies: "Need to talk to him."

Draco mumbles an affirmative and runs off to find a fire-place with a Floo connection.

x

Dumbledore arrives twenty minutes later, dressed in a dark blue robe adorned with a myriad of tiny silver stars. He sits on the side of Potter's bed, pats the boy's hand in a grandfatherly fashion, and looks at Draco and myself over the half-moon spectacles. Draco ignores him completely, staring at Potter, who is paler than chalk, but at least has finally stopped shaking. He should not be sitting up yet, but the wall supports him and he downplays the effect the vision had on him.

I notice the expectation the Headmaster eyes me with, but I refuse to just up and leave now, after four weeks of 'watching' the Boy Who Lived.

"Harry, my boy…"

Potter quirks the corner of his mouth in a grimace easily mistaken for a half-smile.

"Hello, Headmaster," he says simply, calmly. Dumbledore attempts to shoo me out of the room again, but I refuse to budge, which irritates him, though not enough to outright ask me to leave, because he knows Draco (smart and well-versed in mind-games) would recognise the attempt on taking advantage of Potter's state. Reports of Draco's obvious devotion to Potter must have reached his ears.

"I have heard that you have had another vision, Harry."

"Yes, sir," Potter replies, maintaining the economy of words. His shortness confuses Dumbledore and I relish in the picture. The boy is sixteen, exhausted and aching, and yet keeps the upper hand in the conversation. What a wizard Potter could have been by this time under my tutelage… had I not despised him.

"I understood that you have something urgent to tell me, Harry, so if you could, please. It is a rather late hour, and my bones are not as young as they used to be."

Potter ignores the patronising admirably.

"Sir, Voldemort-" Draco and I both shiver, but neither flinches, which in itself is a success. "-has gathered a squadron of werewolves, and plans to release them on orphanages in London."

Dumbledore's expression darkens.

"Full moon is in two days-"

"The _calendar_ states two days, Headmaster," I barge in. "Werewolves transform already tomorrow." He should have realised that, but my involvement in brewing Lupin's potion makes me more aware of the lunar cycle and its quirks.

"Do you know which night, Harry?" Dumbledore asks benignly, twinkling despite it being a very inappropriate moment for his geniality. Potter shakes his head.

"But I have a feeling it's going to be all three. And I don't know which orphanages either, but at least one stands to reason…"

"The place no longer exists, Harry," Dumbledore rebuffs the idea. "It was raided and burnt in the First War."

I have only an inkling of what they are speaking of, since I was never considered important enough to be enlightened as to the internal workings of my leaders' minds. I know what I have seen and the rumours I have heard. The Dark Lord – Tom Riddle – was practically born an orphan. The conclusion is obvious.

"Thank you for this information, Harry. Can you recall something else that could be of use? Anything?"

"They'll be lead by a bloke called 'Fenrir'. Tall, probably strong… and barefoot. He was barefoot."

I did not need to hear the description – the name was enough. Who else would be chosen to lead werewolves into a massacre?

"Greyback," Draco whispers, eyes wide. So he _has_ met the monster. Dumbledore turns to the source of the faint sound, and Potter uses the distraction to give his protégé a silent order to fill him in later. Draco apparently understands, despite giving no outward sign of recognition.

"Thank you, Harry. That is valuable knowledge."

"I am sorry, Professor, I don't know anything more," Potter says, suppressing a yawn.

"That is quite alright, my boy," Dumbledore says and stands up. "Go to sleep – it seems to me that you do need it. Try to have a good night yet." He turns and twinkles at me. "Severus, do not be too hard on the children tomorrow."

I do not acknowledge that with an answer – the brats know well that I am not such a bastard that I would skin either of them for having suffered. Even though I may have done so in the past.

"Good night, Professor," Potter says quietly, receiving a beaming smile from the Headmaster.

"Good night, boys."

The door clicks shut behind the apparition of blue and silver, and the atmosphere noticeably relaxes. Potter lets his head fall back, as though his neck was too weak to carry it. Draco waits a few seconds, and when it is obvious that Dumbledore is well and truly gone, he crawls on the bed next to Potter and rests his head on a bony shoulder, like a confused little animal. Potter puts one arm around his torso and offers what meagre comfort he can.

I restrain myself from giving the closed door a plebeian rude gesture.

"Why does it hurt you so much?" Draco whispers. It is, in fact, a very good question – one that I should have asked immediately. Potter lets his hand play with Draco's hair while he formulates the answer.

"When Voldemort casts the Cruciatus Curse, the power comes from his hatred." Draco nods, even though Potter is pointing out the obvious so far. "But there is no one, not even Dumbledore, whom Tom hates as much as he hates me. When he casts that curse, at anyone, while the connection between our minds is active, he casts it also at me. I can't quite dodge…" Draco shudders and stifles a whine in Potter's shirt.

I am quite certain that I should not be here to witness this, but they do not seem to mind me, and, strangely, even though the scene is too emotional for my tastes, it is not repulsive to watch as the kiss was.

"Tell me about Fenrir Greyback," Potter requests from me, tightening his hold on Draco's ribcage when the Slytherin shudders again.

"Fenrir Greyback is a _born_ werewolf. He is approximately sixty-year-old, and quite famous as the werewolf with the greatest number of victims on his list. Many Death Eaters kill for fun, but he is one of the few who like to do it… hands-on."

"I saw him…" Draco's whisper is cut off as he gags. Potter automatically rubs his back, and a few moments later the boy composes himself enough to speak again. "I saw him _eat_ a Muggle child. Kill and eat. Raw."

That was one of the unfortunately unforgettable displays. I was present at the meeting, although at that time I did not know that Draco was as well. That was no show for children. It was not for adults, either, but at least most of us were there by our own decision, not our parents'. How fitting now seems Lucius's death…

But eating Muggle children, and killing for that matter, is not all that Greyback is renowned for. There is another stain on his black conscience, and another man in this house who has met the monster.

"Greyback is the werewolf who infected Lupin."

Potter's expression does not change. I have actually expected it to. I have not paid enough attention to him, perhaps, but in hindsight I realise that Potter has avoided Lupin in the past month just as he has avoided Diggory. Likely for the very same reason.

"Dumbledore isn't going to let either of us go," Potter remarks easily. He lowers Draco on his bed – the boy must have been exhausted to fall asleep in the middle of a debate – and awkwardly climbs over him. I catch his arm before he falls off the bed and steady him.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and with my aid stands on the carpet. I release my hold of his arm, grimly aware of how thin it is. He still does not eat.

"You need a nanny, idiotic Gryffindor."

The insult raises no response. Potter moves over to Draco's bed and sits down.

"A lot of people are going to get killed," he states darkly. It is weird to see a teenager think this way. He might be right, but even I would hesitate to predict the outcome of such a clash. A dozen werewolves against a crowd of mismatched wizards with variety of levels of skill and little children all around. It is going to be butchery.

"Such is war."

Potter nods, biting his lower lip. His eyes are glazed over dull green as he stares somewhere out of the confines of the bedroom. One of the candles on the shelf burns down and a thin wisp of smoke wafts toward us.

Potter sighs and lies down. He is tired beyond his years, and weighed by the knowledge that the wizarding world expects him to change the nature of the war. They could just as well ask him to bring Heaven to Earth or convince the goblins to give out all their gold.

I echo his sigh and lean back in the chair. I do not feel like going back to my room right now. Potter's dull eyes watch me, but he does not show any will to throw me out. He seems surprised that I would choose to stay, but does not question or contest my decision.

"I want to go there," he admits.

"Because you are stupid," I reply. He shrugs, burrowing further into the blankets.

"It's genetic." He says bitterly. "I told you about the violence. There's going to be violence, and they thrive on it. They thrive…" The green intensifies as his eyes pierce me. "…but so do I, now. They made me this way, and I'm going to bring them down for it."

"You are just going to get killed, Potter, and take more people with you." The jibe was supposed to make him see reason – ergo to make him give up the foolish notion of going into a battle against twelve werewolves. It most certainly was not supposed to make him laugh.

"But that is what I was born for, Snape." He chuckles again. "I was born to die and take people with me. But, with a lot of effort and luck, I might just take the correct ones."

I have hundred answers to that, but he does not want to hear them, and I refuse to waste my breath on someone so impossible and suicidal. He is going to hurt Draco, but Draco will recover if Potter dies, I am sure. And I do not care about him, beyond keeping him alive under the prying eye of Dumbledore.

So I let him sleep without telling him what a selfish moron he is.


	8. Order Members

A/N: Thank you for the encouraging (albeit somewhat sparse) feedback! Here is another chapter for your enjoyment – and just a step closer to each other for Harry and Severus. For those, who were asking about the slash: be patient. Order Members 

x

When I wake up, my neck aches and Draco is back in his own bed, cuddling up to a half-awake Potter. The Gryffindor, whom – I recall – I am currently irritated with, notices the eyebrow I have raised upon seeing the cosy scene.

"What have you done to Lord Malfoy, Potter?" I grumble. I do not really believe he has done anything, but my irritation shows through insults and accusations, whether they are baseless or not. I am, however, used to a temperamental, aggressive, proud and venom-tongued Draco Malfoy, and this little tame pet does resemble him only physically.

"You renewed the Curse, didn't you," Potter says to the huddle of blonde mush, which looks up with pitifully wide grey eyes and blushes, ashamed.

"Yes," the once proud Malfoy heir whispers. "Twice." Potter sighs and smoothes mussed-up locks away from the Slytherin's face, which scrunches up as if something hurt him.

"Draco, you don't have to do penance," Potter admonishes gently. "You've done some wrong things, yes, but there is no given amount of pain that would ease your conscience if you suffer through it. Pain is not the way to make you feel better." I have to look away from the innocent hurting face. How naïve is Draco Malfoy really? How Gryffindorishly foolish? Why does he make the – so common – mistake – hoping that pain inflicted upon self washes away pain inflicted upon others? Is it something that we Slytherins have in common?

"Then what should I do?" he asks in a tiny, helpless voice.

"Use what you have learnt from the Curse to help others." It sounds just as naïve and cliché, but Potter knows what he is talking about. "That is the way to absolution. That is the reason why I wanted you to try it out in the first place. I didn't want you to _hurt_ yourself."

The concept is, naturally, completely strange to Draco. So far the only punishments (with the exception of detentions at Hogwarts) he knew were painful. He grew up among Dark wizards who also grew up among Dark wizards, and therefore pain is the only form of punishment they know – because their forefathers considered it the only form befitting of their progeny.

"Do not use it again, Draco," Potter orders, softly, but without room for protest. "Instead, build on what you have learnt from it, and try to _imagine_ what people would feel like if you did or said something. You think you can do that?" It amazes me how gentle he is, although under the repeated Curse of Path Em Draco is mentally fragile, so it is necessary to treat him with caution. Last night was a proof of that.

"I won't," he promises. The adoring gaze he gives Potter is nauseating, but I refrain from commenting, lest I hurt him more than he already is by the feeling. I resent the invasion of my privacy the Curse causes, and therefore it is highest time that I depart, _before_ I bring Draco to tears.

x

Draco is confined to his and Potter's room for the day. There is a ward on the door that allows only select people to pass. I cannot think of anyone (who resides within Grimmauld place) capable of weaving a passive charm like that, but the fact remains that it has appeared there between my leaving and breakfast, for which the Weasley matron has wanted to call the boys down only to find out that they would not go and she cannot even enter to reprimand them, which results in a spectacular hissy fit.

Potter's only response to that is: "Mrs Weasley, you just completely convinced me that I do _not_ want to go downstairs and get yelled at. Thank you for the offer, though." It sets off Molly's temper, and I hastily retreat to the relative safety of the laboratory, lest I get yelled at too. I am in no mood for that – Potter has made me laugh again.

x

The meeting starts, as usually, at eleven. Potter is here, I am sure, but I cannot see him this time. My first conclusion is that he wears that infernal Cloak of his father's, but that would set off several detectors around the room, and I do not even mention the presence of at least two people who could see through it. There is yet another proof of Potter's hidden resourcefulness.

The Headmaster calls on Moody and Diggle, whose Muggle contacts have for once turned out to be useful, to brief the room about the problem and the suggested solution. Secure in my knowledge that I would not be sent out to battle, I have not wasted mental power on thinking about the clash, therefore the reactions of my so-called compatriots come as a surprise.

The temperature of the lounge perceptibly lowers; wizards and witches who stood face to face with Death Eaters shiver at the thought of going into a battle against werewolves. The unsaid reproach echoes through the room in small gestures and facial expressions.

They do not want to die for a chance of saving parent-less Muggle children.

"We need Aurors on this!" one of the braver men yells. He starts an avalanche of exclamations and (verbal) cursing.

"We must inform the Ministry!" The problem, which these simpletons apparently do not realise, is that _we_ were informed by Potter after he had a _nightmare_. There are no guarantees, not even trusted informants. Nobody would believe us, least of all Scrimgeour.

"_We_ cannot do-" a short blonde in violet robes tries to speak, but is rudely cut off.

"What do you think _Aurors_ can do?" Tonks asks shrilly. "What do you think twelve fully trained Aurors could do against twelve werewolves?" There is silence around the room. They have no idea, but I can just imagine it. Aurors are usable against other wizards, or a group of them against a single Dark creature, but the only one who could stand his ground against a werewolf is another werewolf, or a vampire.

Several gazes rest on Lupin, but it is impossible. Drugged with Wolfsbane, Lupin will be little more than a docile dog for the next three nights. They would tear him to little bloody pieces and scatter the uneaten parts over the adjacent streets.

When the blond witch fails to answer Tonks's query, Moody informs the entire gathered congregation of the true power ratio.

"Twelve Aurors could take three of them down… and die. If they are well co-ordinated."

"Yeah," Tonks agrees with a desperate grimace.

"So we cannot do anything?"

"We can. But we must be _very_ cautious, and we must prioritise," Dumbledore says authoritatively. "I know that watching children die is horrifying, but I urge you to run before you are turned or dead. I want every one of you to return."

Potter was right. A lot of people are going to die.

"Why don't we use Muggle weapons? Load guns with silver bullets?" asks a raspy voice from a centre of a throng of recently graduated Hogwarts alumni (mostly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, surprisingly). The meeting virtually freezes, fazed by the simple brilliance of the suggestion. We do not have skilled snipers, but we could always engage some Muggles on a small scale, or shoot on short distance. It is more dangerous, certainly, but the targets are bigger.

Dumbledore, Moody and the strategist half of the Inner Circle gather in the front of the room to discuss this new development. The rest of the meeting forms a number of small huddles, chattering and arguing, all of them concordantly forgetting about the origin of the idea.

I watch on with barely masked disgust. Once again, _Potter_ had to save us.

x

I was right – the Headmaster forbade me to leave the headquarters tonight. I am 'left in charge', but, considering that one of the people left behind is Molly Weasley, I have a clear idea of who is going to be terrorising the brats into submission. With Lupin stashed away in the basement and the winged beast from the master bedroom transferred to Hogwarts into Hagrid's care there is nothing for me to take charge of.

Which suits me perfectly.

I sit in on a bench in the hall, seemingly idly watching the solemn, fear-struck procession trickling out the door. They are all quiet, and not only to avoid rousing Black's psychopathic mother. They shuffle along, giving me dark glares that are supposed to convey how it should be me going into the arena to die, not them. How I am betraying the Order by obeying the orders.

What I have not anticipated, though, is an attack.

The spell was either whispered or non-verbal. It must have been some kind of Petrification, because I cannot move, even though I do not appear stiff to the onlookers, who, due to my perpetual lack of motion, no not notice my predicament.

"Hey, Snape," an emotionless voice says quietly next to my ear. Potter. I should have known. "Yeah, I understand," he says impatiently as though he was reading my mind. "You can rant at me if I return. I have a request." Of course he does. No one who does not want something from me bothers to talk to me.

The spell marginally relaxes, and I can at least alter my expression.

"If I don't return, take care of Draco, alright? Don't let either Darkness or his guilt consume him. It's going to be an uphill fight for a while, but he has it in him to be great."

What kind of man does he think I am? Of course I would watch over Draco, whether he 'requests' it or not. However, I doubt very much that the boy would welcome my guidance. Potter better come back…

"I'll try to return." Of course he will. And I am going to have him in detention for months for this idiotic stunt. I wish he was visible, so that I would know where to glare.

x

They come back just before three in the morning. The only occupants of the house who managed to sleep were Lupin, who cared about little but his stomach in his dog-like state, and Draco, whom I took the liberty of knocking out with a strategically placed (in his tea-cup) vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Within those seven hours, the Order has become a procession of Inferi. They walk and stumble, in shock, with a visible aura of horror and grief hanging around them. Faces screwed with pain and fear, they hang onto each other. Tonks walks alone, reminding me of Hogwarts suits of armour – animated, but capable only of few basic motions. Her hair is pure black, her eyes mirror mine; her skin is grey where it is visible through tears in her robes. The cloth is blotched with blood, but all wounds were healed before she was released from the clutches of the medi-wizards. She looks at me as if I was the luckiest man in the world.

"Severus," she says; the sounds coming from her mouth are barely audible. I do not know what to tell her. I must do something, though, so I settle for clasping her shoulder as I saw Potter do it to Draco. She seems to be grateful for it, as if it helped her recall the reality of this moment.

"Thank you…" she says and walks on past me into the lounge, where the fighting members of the Order gather. I feel faint compunctions – should I have been there with them? I have risked my life thousand times for them, with no gratitude ever shown, but should I not have…

"Had a nice evening, Snape?" one of the Gryffindors I went to Hogwarts with asks me caustically. "I saw a girl the same age as my daughter ripped to shreds today. Did you have a nice nap?"

I remain impassive, saying nothing. They are grieving. It does not matter. It does not matter…

It never matters. As long as it is happening to someone else it never matters. Where was this self-righteous fighter for freedom when Lucius forced Draco to watch a child being _eaten_? Where was he when I crawled on all four to reach safety, too weak and shaking from Cruciatus to walk upright? Where was he when the Death Eaters tortured Potter?

"Answer me!" he screams and lifts a hand to punch me in the face. I brace myself for the blow, but it does not land. And invisible hand grips his forearm and invisible mouth mutters 'Stupefy'. He blacks out. I would have let him fall, but my 'saviour' does not; instead eases him on the floor.

"Nothing to see here," I mutter with bitter irony to several witnesses of the event. They do not understand what happened, since it was very obvious that I have done nothing to defend myself. In their emotional states, however, they are going to assume that their senses were playing with them.

For a moment I am _allowed_ to see through the Invisibility Cloak. Potter's face is blank, calm, as if nothing out there touched him, as if the experience left him unchanged, even though he has droplets of blood dried in his hair and a blue bruise on one of his cheeks. His eyes are not dark like Nymphadora's – they are empty. Then he turns around, and I once again see nothing of him.

After a long while of deliberating, I join the Order in the lounge.

They aimlessly sit on couches and in armchairs, not speaking, not listening, just wallowing, with Potter's clique scattered among them. I am, maybe, being unfair, but the best thing to do after such experience is vomit and then accept it. But these are Gryffindors and associates – not suited for survival, only for heroics.

Moody scowls, mutters something, and stomps off as fast as his peg allows him to.

Watching old, hardened men cry, or almost-cry, scares the children. It scares me too, and it scares everyone around… except Potter. I have a feeling that it is because Potter does not get scared anymore. He does not even get angry.

I sit in one of the last free armchairs (coincidentally opposite Tonks, which I only realise a minute later), brace my heel against the seat, rest my elbow on my knee and my chin in my palm.

Potter is like thousand little pieces, each of them different, some even making sense put together, but they do not all belong to one puzzle. He cannot be truly made sense of – there is no one picture he forms, just tiny little shards: expressions, statements, reactions… all of it immediate, as if there was no long-term personality behind those eerie empty eyes.

I know what he is doing. He is giving up his humanity.

I have seen one man give up his humanity before, and if _Potter_ does it, then 'God help us all'. At times like these I wish I believed in God, in any god… in anything but me… but, well, it appears that it will have to be me again, who does the saving.

x

After thirty minutes, which he, apparently, uses to wash himself, apply either healing charms or an Illusion and change, Potter walks into the room. A second look at him uncovers discrepancies to that theory. He has a wet blotch on his chest, placed awkwardly above his heart, reaching up to his collarbone.

He takes a cursory glance around and aims straight for Nymphadora. He taps her shoulder from behind, and she turns, reflexively reaching for her wand. The motion is cut off as soon as she recognises him; she turns away from him, draws her knees up to her chest, and rests her chin on the left one.

"Go away, Harry," she says. It is terrifying that an experienced Auror was affected so badly, that her voice is so small and childlike and quivering. I would pity her, but right now all my pity is being used up on myself. Irritating how even in pointing this out, Potter was right.

The Gryffindor in question ignores the order, walks around the couch with slowness that indicates pain (I am, sadly, becoming accustomed to seeing him move that way), and sits down next to Tonks. He gives her about a minute to get used to his presence, and then he puts his arm around her shoulders. She keeps her position for a few seconds…

…and finally breaks down. She turns and buries her face in Potter's shoulder, illustrating to me where the wet blotch came from. The boy remains cool, apparently untouched by the emotions, and lets her weep, carding his fingers through her hair. Were it not for the marks suggesting that he has provided this treatment to others before, and the lack of expression on his face, I would suspect that he wanted Nymphadora romantically. It would not be surprising at all (except for my suspicion that he is homosexual). However, he seems more parental than anything else… actually, he seems uninterested, though his actions belie his pose.

It is just another paradox to add to the heap of others. Potter and anything he does has ceded to surprise me simply because I expect it to surprise me now. I am proved right about his intentions a moment later.

"Better now?" he asks when Tonks lifts her head and wipes her eyes and nose (in that order, fortunately) into her sleeve.

"Yeah… thanks, Harry," she mumbles, stands up and walks out of the room, presumably to go and sleep off the headache she is likely to suffer. It worries – and, truthfully, roils – me to see adult people accepting reassurance and comfort from a child, without giving a thought to whether _he_ might require anything. I am sure no one held him after he killed, or after he was hurt… or after he watched children being slaughtered. Trained Aurors break apart, and a mere school-child is left to his own devices to cope. They may not know he was there tonight, but I am willing to wager that he has received little to no counselling in the past .

No wonder he has lost himself. No one could come through what he had experienced and remain sane. I admit it… and it shames me, as a part of the group responsible for him, that there was no one who cared enough to care.

Methodically, as Granger approaches a library and Weasley a chessboard, Potter makes his way through the room. The two eldest Weasley boys require no more than a few minutes of conversation under their breath and a round of manly hugs, before they allow themselves to be sent off to bed. Lupin (who was not even a part of the counter-attack, but crawled out of the basement after the Moon sank) takes much longer, and adds another dose of salt to Potter's chest. I watch with contempt as the greying man/monster hangs onto the skinny shoulders of the boy, gripping them with force not overly superhuman, but unchecked enough to leave bruises.

The boy's expression remains stony, betraying nothing of what must be going on inside him – the discomfort of Cruciatus or whatever it was that added the stiffness to his movement, the gripping claws of the werewolf digging into his paper-white skin, crushing veins… the picture of burning little humans behind the mask of a child's face.

"Harry, I…"

For just a moment I ironically think of all the excuses for his behaviour Lupin could come up with, until the dreary truth hits back home. The werewolf smiles through his tears, undoubtedly seeing everything blurred and being all the happier for it, and brushes Potter's unmanageable hair out of his face.

"Thank you," he says with a kind of momentary, self-serving happiness. Potter's hair immediately returns to its place, like a carefully arranged barrier, a curtain of sorts, that the boy wants precisely where he has it; he peeks from behind it and watches the world while it is unaware of his scrutiny. How much like a Slytherin. How much like me.

"You're welcome, Remus," the boy replies lightly, and there is something mechanic in his tone. After all, he was probably thanked too many times to count tonight, and his mouth speaks the well-rehearsed reply without actually needing to engage the brain. "You should go to bed – you are still not healthy, and you must be weak from the transformation."

Potter leans forward to Lupin's upturned face. There is the slightest hesitation, visible only to an interested observer, and then he presses a kiss to the older wizard's brow. The werewolf pauses, gasping, and then a fresh wave of tears wells in his eyes, and his shoulders begin to shake anew.

"Do you need me to take you upstairs?" Potter asks kindly, but the seemingly divine patience is lost from his voice. A pair of world-weary amber eyes meets his, and Lupin shakes his head.

"I'll manage. Thank you again, Harry. For someone so young, you are an incredibly admirable man."

A group of shadows plays on Potter's face, twisting it into an ugly, Dark expression of cynical amusement. He pats Lupin's head, and the wizard actually growls with pleasure – if he had a tail, he would wag it.

"Good night, Remus. Have many more nice dreams."

The un-funny attempt at humour goes right over the werewolf's head, but, like a good, properly domesticated pet, he stands up and walks to the doorway. There he halts, looks back at the room containing only Potter sitting on his haunches and I in a moth-eaten armchair in the corner, and for a glorious moment of award-worthy performance pretends to be a responsible adult.

"You should also head to bed, Harry. You are still growing – keeping odd hours can't be good for your body."

Potter's eyebrows rise just a fraction in private amusement, but unless one sees through his curtain of hair, he seems perfectly serious in his reply: "Sure, I'll go lie down in just a mo'." The butchering of English is too excessive to be spontaneous, but Lupin does not notice. He nods and leaves. Potter waits for the sound of footsteps to fade before he sneers. "Still growing, right…dream on, Remus."

With Potter's figure it is strikingly obvious that something is wrong – despite never suffering an actual illness he looks sickly, twisted. He is smaller than his peers and thinner now then I ever recall him being (except perhaps during the welcoming feast in 1991), though he hides it well under several layers of clothing. Only when one looks closely at his hands, the malnutrition – possibly even anorexia – is apparent.

He turns those empty, bottomless, _dead_, eyes to me; I straighten and shake my head in refusal… and the world breaks in shards, for we – I and Potter – have an understanding that runs deeper than words, deeper than anything he or I could explain. I finally see him as he is, bigger than life, more than a mere human, higher and brighter than what whoever of us, others, could achieve… and yet, left on his own, he is doomed to bleed and die. He has no anchor to this place but for his wish to save those he loves, and even that will dissolve if he kills the Dark Lord. He is existing on purpose, and if that runs out…

Tacitly, I stand and extend my hand. He does not take it, but follows without a sound as I make my way through the house to the backdoor, and blast it open. It has been kept locked for years because there was no use for the backyard, and too many other, more significant problems to deal with than a warded entrance leading into a place between four tall brick walls that contains nothing but overgrown weed.

I have to stomp on the flora a few times just to make space for us to step into, and gesture Potter out of the shadow he hides in (which I suspect he does instinctively) into the starlight. He is paler than he would be when illuminated by fire or Sun, and he seems yet smaller and thinner with his black clothes and hair fused into the darkness. He is nothing but hands and face and empty green eyes.

"Come here."

He comes, without expectations, without even his trademark curiosity. All spark is gone out, and I suspect that were I to hit him now he would stand there and let me do it, perhaps thinking that I needed it. If I were to kill him, his only regret would be that he would not have taken the Dark Lord with him. I cannot stand looking at him like this. It tears me apart. I cannot fathom why no one does anything, but if no one else will then…

As soon as he steps close enough, I put my arms around him. A human body so close to me feels unfamiliar, but I deal with the discomfort as I always do. Strangely enough, there is a subconscious something that insists that the world is a slightly better place. This must have been what Potter offered those people inside. If I had tears left to cry, I might have used this chance. As it is…

For a long, long while the boy remains impassive.


	9. Catcher in Rye

Catcher in Rye 

x

Tonks had caved after a mere minute, but I estimate we have been standing here motionless for about a quarter an hour, before _my_ patience runs out, and I sit down on the grass, pulling Potter on my lap and thus stomping on the last shreds of dignity either of us has had left. He turns around, grasps me with an almost animalistic desperation, and clings to me as if I was his lifeline. Which I, scarily enough, might turn out to be.

He does not cry, which is all wrong because he should, but I feel his heartbeat speed up and his breathing become ragged. Oh fuck… _I am close enough to Potter to feel his heartbeat_… I jerk as he runs his fingers through my hair.

"What are you doing-"

"Why did it have to be you?" Not a comment on the greasiness, but I did not quite expect one. He does not care enough to make remarks about something so trivial. No, this boy died inside and nobody noticed, and what I am doing is like breathing on hot embers, hoping for a spark… but if you want new fire, you have to feed it. And I have so, so little to offer, even though I am beyond caring about who this person is, which is why I came as far as I did. I do not hate him. I do not dislike him anymore. I am just afraid.

In the middle of the night, after a tragedy that makes blood curdle, hugging Harry Potter who plays with my hair, I finally admit to myself how scared I am. And he asks why it had to be me. Because nobody else was willing. Or aware.

"It is the height of irony, is it not," he whispers, somewhere close to my ear. He sounds cold, but his breath on my neck is warm.

"What do you me-"

"The first one to hold me like this. Why did it have to be you?" It is… tragic. Even I remember being held. It was long ago, naturally, but I remember clinging to that memory at particularly hard times. That he had nothing like that is outrageous. It does not surprise me that he snapped – it only astonishes me how long he had managed to keep a grip on his sanity. "I don't know if I'll ever have another chance, so I'm taking advantage of the opportunity. Strange… it feels kinda nice…" He is almost not human anymore, and that is not something to scorn, but to pity him for. It took me until now to realise that.

"Potter…"

He draws away from me and disentangles himself, gently, with a care that almost hurts. I am old, hardened; I do not require carefulness in handling. But he is like that now – bipolar. Savage and brute to anything he opposes, and kind and gentle to everything he supports. What I did to deserve sorting into the second category I have no idea, but I do not complain. Except that Potter is leaving now, hiding himself further inside instead of coming out of his shell. I feel I failed, and that is unacceptable.

What happened to him? What changed him so much that he would give up everything he stands for but for the ungrateful suicidal task an old shrivelled hag saddled him with?

"Why are you not as affected as they are?" I gesture vaguely to the house.

"I am."

"Are you?"

He pauses to actually think about it and then shakes his head in bemusement.

"I don't know. I don't think I care. I've just seen so much death, and it's all pointless. I know what I live for, but what do people live for? Why bother with anything? Why not just lie down and die? It would be easier that way…" That is exactly the philosophy that one should not listen to. It kills spirit. There is no way to prove anything on that scale, and the endless wondering is merely a way of wasting life.

But Potter is saying something else, thank Merlin. He does not believe this drivel; he has a point to make: "But people insist on being stupid… and cruel… and it is my task to save that stupidity and cruelty. I can't think about it too long or I would just kill everyone and be done with it. I have to keep myself in check…" His eyes dart around, searching for anyone listening. The house is silent and sleeping. He sent all the mopers to bed, and I strongly suspect Molly Weasley had laced the tea with Calming Draught. The only wakeful people except for the duty in kitchen are the two of us.

I wait for his conclusion with anticipation, feeling mentally colder than I have in… half an hour. Then Potter gives his mighty proclamation…

"I have to kill Voldemort."

­…and goes away. I call that anticlimactic.

x

I will not stand for it. I came so far, I battled myself, risked humiliation in front of one of the people I had once upon a time hated with blazing passion…

I follow after him, knowing his destination is either the room he hates most, or the one he likes best. Sure enough, the ward on his and Draco's bedroom admits me. He is sitting on the side of Draco's bed, clad only in underwear that has seen better decades, smoothing wisps of white-blond hair out of the peaceful pale face slack in drugged sleep. He knows the moment when my hand touches the door-handle, but does not send me away. In fact, he does not react to me at all – no greeting, no insult, not even a look over his shoulder in my direction.

I seat myself on his bed, assuming the same position I was in when he entered the lounge, and busy myself with staring at him. Rock-hard muscles of critically minimal bulk protect the bones of his arms; his joints stick out in an unappealing way, sharp and pointed, dangerous weapons once he hits the nearly-berserk state of mind I have witnessed him in on Hogwarts ramparts. I could count his ribs – actually, I do so upon the realisation. The number is correct, and I shift my attention to the deep shadows under and above his collarbone.

His hand moves as he strokes Draco's cheek, once again a passable facsimile of a romantic interest, but I know better than that. He truly cares about this boy, and this is a part of the comforting melodrama he participated in this evening, the true purpose of which I now suspect to be a recollection. He needed desperately to be reminded of why he is fighting.

He glances at me, just fleetly, but it is enough for me to understand that while my presence here is not desired, it is accepted. The green of Potter's eyes does not stand out so strikingly here, where the background is not solid black. His skin does not look so white anymore; it is plain grey with tangles of dull green veins criss-crossing it. His entire being inspires indifference.

I have hated him, protected him, pitied him and envied him, but never, never have I been indifferent. I am not going to start now.

"I see now," I tell him simply. I expect refusal – teenagers tend to believe that they cannot be understood the same way that adults believe that they understand the teenagers perfectly. As human beings, imperfection is a part of our definition, but I am willing to tolerate the gaps – _chasms_, more accurately – between us, if he is, too.

"I know you have killed, Professor," he replies, taking the metaphorical hand I have extended, "but have you killed your family? If you have, you may have an inkling of what I felt like…" The haunted look that appears on his face as his mask is discarded is frighteningly familiar. He has so many bad memories that anything I might say is a step on shards. Most of them are still sharp enough to cut, and he bleeds and bleeds and is going to continue bleeding until he is but a dried and shrivelled husk.

He snorts in a bitter parody of laughter and turns to face me, his hand never ceding perpetual stroking of Draco's hair.

"Except that it was not _me_ who killed them. It was Voldemort… he just did it using _my_ hands. And I don't mean coercion or some kind of mad scheme… I mean it quite literally…" I am trying to make sense of his words, but the effort is futile. I cannot gauge where the metaphor ends and the literality begins.

"Possession…" he explains. My insides turn to lead. "It's like Cruciatus and Imperius at the same time… only rather magnified." He shakes his head, inside it momentarily returning to the site where the kin-slaying happened. I had no idea about this… I presumed that his relatives were murdered by Death Eaters, or some passive curse, never that it was Potter himself forced into killing.

"There's nothing you can do but watch yourself be played like a puppet…" he continues, his voice dark and quiet, "and _your_ hand buries the knife in your Aunt's chest… over and over… your fingers are stained with her blood… the metallic taste on your tongue…" Re-living the memory, he puts his index finger in his mouth, licks it and then softly sucks at it. It strikes me how erotic a picture he paints, and the sheer morbidity of that thought in connotation with what he says is enough to make my stomach lurch.

And, on top of that, as a treat, ten times Cruciatus.

It is no wonder that he is going insane. No wonder that he takes such a good care of Draco. No wonder that he ignores orders and sneaks into Order meetings. The Headmaster has no bloody right to patronise this boy.

"Do you think Dumbledore wants a killer machine?" he asks with genuine interest in the answer. "Or is he really so blind to what he is creating?" I am inclined to believe the latter, but no one can truly grasp what is going on in that wizard's head. He practically nurtured Voldemort. Who is to say that he does not have similar intentions with Potter? Who is to say that it was not Tom Riddle who killed Grindelwald once upon a time? The witnesses' accounts were unreliable at best… although I do not truly believe that. Still, it is leastways surprising how a Hogwarts Head Boy became a Dark Lord.

"Is that what you feel you are?"

He shrugs, with the help of both hands stands up from Draco's bed and comes over to his own, sitting down next to me close enough to steal warmth yet not enough to touch. It might be a gentle reminder that I am invading his privacy, but I suspect it is in fact simple loneliness.

"Killing has become easy," he says despondently. "So fucking easy."

A profanity again. So he _is_ distressed. That is what scared me – that he did not seem affected. Knowing that he is makes the chances that I can still reach him, still steer him away from the insanity of Darkness, higher.

"It does not seem so right now," I object. He does not agree.

"I am… indifferent to death, _anybody's_ death."

That is a load of horseshit. Nobody here today was indifferent, even Dumbledore, despite his calm admission of how 'watching children die was horrifying'. Potter is simply affected in a different way, going cold and numb instead of crying of breaking every fragile object within reach.

"Liar," I tell him straight. He seems truly surprised. Puzzled malachite eyes turn to me, the mind behind them attempting to see the situation from my point of view. He still does not agree with me.

"Hmm… not really. Perhaps there are people whose death I would not be indifferent to… but I doubt my ability to mourn."

I wonder on which of the dead he based this opinion. Was it Diggory, who haunted his nightmares for months and probably does to this day? Was it Black, killed by his own idiocy and the Dark Lord's schemes, the one death that thrust the Golden Boy into Darkness? Was it his relatives, who never gave him reason to mourn them other than lost scraps of so-called innocence?

If so, Potter's self-assessment is as twisted as the boy himself.

He lies down, sticking his Bowtruckle legs into the two feet of space between the wall and my back. Drowsiness washes over him, and I stand up to free the blanket, so that he can cover himself before he falls asleep. Merlin save me if I was to end this thrice damned day by tucking in a sleeping Potter.

x

Debriefing has been left for today to happen over cups of mint tea and the latest issue of Daily Prophet. The meeting starts at the usual time, with more than half of the Order in attendance. Those missing are in hospital or dead.

Potter walks in purposefully, ignoring the curious looks cast in his direction. Bile rises in my throat as I recognise the rich green, black and gold dress-robes he is wearing – they used to belong to Regulus. Potter must have found the garment within the house, which means it is his, but wearing it while he knows that a dead man wore it… it could be considered morbid.

He, obviously, does not care. It works for what he needs it for. The only people who would recognise him like this are those who know him well – Lupin, Tonks, Moody, the Weasleys, Dumbledore – but those who are present are too occupied with trying to withstand the palpable tension in the atmosphere. Here and there a lone person notices the scar on his forehead, but none of them realise that Potter should not be here, which only proves how inane his exclusion was in the first place.

"Welcome, members of the Order," Dumbledore's voice shuts up the whispered conversations faster than ever. Every pair of eyes within the room, including Moody's, is hanging on his lips. "First and foremost, I would like to thank you all for your participation in yesterday's battle, and ask you for a minute of silence for our fallen comrades – Dedalus Diggle, Tibor McKinnon, Pollux Merrythought and Aurora Sinistra."

I am shocked to only hear four names. Fifteen to twenty others have to remain in the care of Healers, but it is still much less causalities than what I have anticipated.

"W-what happened to Pollux…" whispers a thunderstruck elder woman sitting close enough for me to hear. Curls of grey hair bob as she furiously shakes her hear.

"It's better you don't-" Jones tries to avoid answering.

"This is my son! Tell me what happened to my baby!" she yells, disturbing the so-called minute of silence, but receives no disapproval and no anger, only pity. Potter's eyes are closed, forehead wrinkled and knuckles white as he spasmodically grips the handle of his wand.

"Dementor's Kiss…" Jones admits hesitantly. Merrythought's mother wails loudly; Jones hoists her by her arm and leads her out of the room, glancing apologetically at Dumbledore. Catherine McKinnon sobs quietly on the opposite side of the room, but I cannot bring myself to feel any grief for her husband. The last time I heard anything from him, he likened me to a bat and wondered why I do not hang upside down; the times I have met him before went exactly like that.

I will miss Sinistra, though. She was never afraid of me and played a challenging game of chess. Not that any of us are going to have a lot of time for games in the near future, but it is a pity to lose intelligent people. Any semblance of silence and dignity is lost, and the Headmaster steps up again to open the conference.

"Today in the early morning hours, the Muggle Prime Minister offered the assistance of Muggle armed forces in the war against Voldemort. Shall we stand against a unit of lycanthropes again, we will have suitable means of counter-attack." While these are good news, they do not cheer up anyone. The inclusion of them in the beginning of the grim meeting is, despite the _bona fides_, banal.

"We should learn to shoot anyway," says a familiar voice coldly. The collective attention shifts rapidly to the boy standing in a shadowed corner. He steps forwards to lend credence to his statement, showing that he stands behind it. As the shadows retract from his face, more people recognise him, and Pandemonium is on the verge of breaking out. "At least some of us," he adds with a doubtful look around himself.

"Harry…" Dumbledore says warningly, with a hint of irritation. "You are not supposed to be in Order meetings." His answer is series of gasps as those of the Outer Circle stomach the statement.

"I could get in easily," Potter replies uncaringly and waves the topic away as irrelevant. "Just as I did yesterday. Tell me, Headmaster, how many of the werewolves were killed by silver bullets?"

Dumbledore scowls, but quickly wills the expression away.

"You seem to already know, Harry."

There are more gasps, as those of faster minds put facts together and form conclusions.

"Humour me," Potter says with bitterness that smoothes away the unlucky choice of words in the minds of his audience.

"Six," Moody tells him. "And it's a bloody good thing that we had them, or there would be fewer of us here."

Potter's face hardens.

"Then don't tell me you don't need me here. You needed me yesterday to suggest to use them, just as you needed me at night when the entire Order could produce ten Patroni _together_."

The reactions are instant. Minerva clutches at her heart, Molly sags into her husband's arms, Tonks (who, judging by her expression, knew about Potter's night excursion) turns away from Lupin, who gapes open-mouthed at Dumbledore. Moody nods tacitly, with respect to the brat. I am mildly impressed – Moody's respect is a rare commodity. The four Weasley boys, who all survived without greater injury (which makes one think, especially since Potter _loves_ that family, and their 'luck' is a glaring statistical anomaly), avoid their father's questioning gaze.

Potter sneers.

"Yes, I was there. Yes, I helped drive the dementors away. Yes, I killed the _last one_. And no, I am not letting you treat me like a child."

"But that is what you are, Harry," Dumbledore relies in a tone that does not allow room for objections. "You are a child and it is our responsibility to keep you safe."

Potter's eyes become more shuttered than they were before; his blank mask returns, and he steps back into the shadow without acknowledging the words. It is uncharacteristic of him to surrender like this, but he has not been staying in character much during the past weeks. I observe the expressions around the room. A minority is on his side that, without a doubt, includes Tonks, Shacklebolt and Moody.

The Headmaster meets my eyes, but learns nothing. My mind is ever Occluded, and I do not let my face betray my feelings.

"You may remain for this meeting, Harry, but I do not wish to have to ask you to leave in the future. The Order admits neither minors, nor students. You are still both."

Yes, that he is. I suggest we write it on his headstone when the Dark Lord kills him – here rests a minor, a student, a _child_.

x

The Order of the Phoenix is a perfect sample of the stupidity and cruelty Potter is supposed to save.

I realise this many times during the next few hours. There are many reports and many reporting people. Despite the distinct lack of details, caused by a typical battle chaos and subsequent shocks, the meeting is successful in putting together what actually happened. Potter has, among other things, killed _at least_ one of the werewolves (though no one seems to be certain how) and saved them in the very beginning by chasing away more dementors than the group of ten semi-competent Order Members.

"I think that Harry should give us his account of the events," Dumbledore says jovially, arresting the attention of those who have been gradually becoming bored or returning in their minds to their grief.

Potter steps forwards and comes to a halt in the centre of the room. He looks the Headmaster up and down, cocks his head to the side as if deliberating, and then shrugs. He smiles an unkind, toothy smile.

"I am not yours to command, Professor," he states, straightens, and walks out. Moody, out of sight behind Dumbledore's back, grins like a loon.

x

"Hey, sleepy-head!" I hear Potter's voice through the door. At half past four Draco should have been long since up and around, so I have taken it upon myself to come and check that his heart is still beating.

"Who're ya callina whassa-fing?" inquires a half-awake voice of the young Lord Malfoy. While his heart apparently is beating, the wording of the query instils doubts about his higher mental functions within my mind.

"You, baby," Potter says cheekily, and for just a moment I remember the kiss I was forced to witness. Potter claimed that he was not interested, but the address is not what one could expect between two teenage boys having a platonic relationship…

There is another thud and I resolve to walk in before something indecent happens.

I open the door and find a regally dressed Potter being beaten into submission by Draco wielding a pillow. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the oncoming headache. It seems, however, that I have managed to temporarily save the saviour.

I am the bloody catcher in the rye.


	10. Mourners

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Send more! I have not answered your questions because I don't want to spoil the story for you – just stay tuned. As I mentioned somewhere in the very beginning, this story is already completed, so you can be certain that it won't be abandoned. 

Brynn

x Mourners 

x

"Severus…"

I count the twelfth and thirteenth drop, stir and then turn around. A petite woman with long green hair is standing in the doorway.

"Nymphadora."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and I feel a spark of warmth enter the laboratory. Pity. I used to enjoy provoking her by calling her that – the reaction I receive now is nearly opposite. The little Hufflepuff has grown up.

She paces little idle steps forward, looking around as if interested in the facing of vessels with ingredients.

"Do you want something?" I ask impatiently. The potion I am working on is not too time-sensitive, but I dislike being interrupted in the middle of brewing. She blinks and glances at me, bewildered, as though the five seconds were enough to forget that I am here. "If not, the door is that way." I point behind her.

"Nice to know you don't change, Severus," she says with a smile, which drops immediately. "Memorial service is on Friday in the evening. The McKinnons have a separate one, but Dedalus, Pollux and Aurora will have a joint ritual on Moel Cynghorion Gweirdir."

"I shall be there."

She nods, gives me another fleeting smile, then shrugs and with odd, skipping steps moves to the exit. I revert my attention to the potion.

"You know, Severus…" I look up. It is disconcerting to see her so uncertain, so quiet. Her self-confidence has been badly damaged and it might cost her life some day in the near future. Another one of those who grow too fragile and then, long before their time, are shattered by someone without morals.

"Say what you want to say, Nymphadora."

"Dumbledore doesn't want the kids there, so they won't be told…" I sigh at the information – so like the Headmaster. Who cares that Potter has to this day debilitating nightmares about Diggory's death, as long as he does not risk his life by attending a memorial (along with fifty other Light wizards) that could bring him some kind of closure. "I think… at least Harry should be invited. I mean… he was there. He saw when it happened… he tried…" She takes a deep, ragged breath and prattles on, as if I needed persuading: "He tried to pry the dementor off Pollux. It was too late, but… I've never seen anyone with the guts to wrestle a dementor. And he's so tiny… smaller than Ginny. It's the D-Dursleys' fault…"

At this point I hit her with a Stinging Hex. She yelps, but recovers quickly.

"Sorry."

"Do you want some Dreamless Sleep?"

She nods; I pass her a flask that is still warm. She slips it into her pocket and finally leaves.

x

In the evening on Thursday I have the displeasure of meeting the complete Potter clique. Lovegood and, to my abject horror, Longbottom have joined the Gryffindors. I am mildly shocked to see how easily both new-comers have accepted Draco's presence. The Slytherin is currently lounging next to his magical guardian and reading a book that has a newspaper cover hiding its name.

Before I can say a word, though, I am accosted by a Malfoyesque blonde, who comes in right behind me and starts talking before I even know who she is.

"_Bonsoir, Professeur_!" It is Delacour, then. She had gone home sometimes in the beginning of August (called off by her parents, who were displeased to learn of her part in the July Battle of Hogwarts), and I have almost forgotten about her involvement with the Order. It was a pleasant respite… "I 'ave not seen you in a long time!" She is polite, even though not exactly ecstatic to _see me_. I am reminded that she was bred to become the wife of a politician, and ended with William only because she was chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.

"Good evening, Miss Delacour," I reply. "How was your stay in France?"

Ginevra watches with interest as the woman nervously plays with her bracelet.

"Very nice, thank you," she says completely believably. "I came back immediately when I 'eard of the tragedy. Bill was _distraught_." As far as I can tell, she is quite happy that _she_ was _not_ here.

Having nothing to say to her, I nod. _Everyone_ here was distraught, with the possible exception of myself. Fleur Delacour does not fit into this bleak house, with her beauty and happiness, and syrupy declarations of love. Ginevra's interest morphs into a frown. She burrows further into Potter's side, mirroring Draco. Potter gives her a brief glance and then looks up at me over the top of his book, also wrapped in newspaper. My eyes are drawn to the picture of a dead werewolf on what used to be Daily Prophet… I wonder whether it is a coincidence or a statement.

"We haven't seen you in a long time either," he remarks, quite correctly, since I was holed up in the laboratory, replenishing the stores of Hogwarts infirmary that were depleted after the battle for the last two days.

"That is none of your business, Potter," I tell him caustically. "Up and follow me. Without the army of bootlickers."

I briskly lead the way out of the library. Out in the hallway I have to wait for him while he fends off the fanclub and then assures Draco that my intention truly _is not_ liberating several of Potter's vitally important organs to use them in some Dark concoctions.

"You know, if you got to Tonks before Remus, you wouldn't have this problem," he says softly, having closed the door behind him. The robe he wears is a standard Hogwarts uniform with a Slytherin crest. It is fitting… too well for my liking… but Potter is no Slytherin and he should not be wearing the crest. The robe was most likely Regulus's once upon a time, but the twenty odd years since it was used have not affected it due to endurance charms.

For a moment I simply stare at him. It is inconceivable that this petite runt threw himself at a dementor to save a man he had never known. Inconceivable that he touched the creature at all… not to speak about the past experiences he must have… He might be the only person alive and relatively sane to have seen what is hidden under a dementor's hood.

"What are you insinuating now, you wretch?"

"I simply revisit our argument from July, Snape," he says with blankness that is supposed to indicate that his point is fairly obvious, he should not have to explain it, and that he feels it has nothing or very little to do with him. It is as fake as his indifference on Wednesday, but at the same time it shows that he is on the path from sarcasm to cynicism. This time, I fail to be surprised.

"Which one?" Merlin knows we do have a lot of them. Suspiciously many, to tell the truth.

He leans against the wall (apparently considering it the perfect gesture to create an air of nonchalance around himself), and I wait for the punch-line.

"If you had a woman to bed on regular basis, you wouldn't have to take out your frustrations on me."

My knuckles whiten as I clench my fists. This I have not expected – I have managed to forget that we ever had _that_ particular confrontation. It is disturbing to hear Potter speculate about my sex-life – or lack thereof (especially since it makes me more likely to blow at him, which would give him more fuel). This is the reason why I never traded insults with Lucius – he would steer them to a field in which I had no chance on besting him.

This kind of conversation makes me intensely uncomfortable.

"Nymphadora informed me of something she thinks should be brought to your attention."

There is a brief flash of amusement in his eyes when I mention the woman, but it disappears immediately, replaced by sombre interest.

"Why didn't she tell me, then?"

"The Headmaster does not wish you to know."

The blank mask slides over his face, hiding an emotion he does not want to show to me. I surmise it is due to the Headmaster, not my involvement – he has seen me act against orders too many times to be surprised by this turn of events. Nymphadora never was the obedient pet either – even though she had to learn discipline in Auror training, she remains inventive, wilful, and fiercely, Gryffindorly righteous.

"What is it?" he asks simply.

"The memorial service for Diggle, Merrythought and Sinistra takes place tomorrow."

Potter closes his eyes, hangs his head and his lips form soundless words. He is not aware of my skill in lip-reading, and therefore does not control himself in disparaging Dumbledore and his ancestors.

"That is enough, Potter." He glances up at me. "Be prepared to leave at noon. Do not tell any of your friends of this – that means not even Draco. We are doing you a large favour as it is."

I turn around and set out back to the laboratory.

"And I do appreciate it, Professor," he says, almost respectfully, to my back.

x

As per our agreement, I have not concerned myself with Potter further. Whether he went or not or who accompanied him was not all that important to me, except that it was my responsibility to ensure that Potter does not kill anyone along the way. I, however, doubt that the Dark Lord is likely to attempt possession today, or during waking hours.

I am the first of those not involved in organisation of the ritual to arrive at the Meadow. I walk away from the group preparing the pyres, looking downwards so that I would not step on any of the Snowdon Lilies that litter the ground. When I do not hear voices anymore I halt and gaze into the distance in the opposite direction from them, altogether ignoring their presence. I breath in the air and take time to simply enjoy the raw beauty of the nature around me. This is one of the most enthralling places I have ever been to, though I forbade myself to come here unless there is a cause. Gods know I do come too often anyway, for the Order of the Phoenix chose this site to be their semi-official place for the ultimate valedictions.

When the crowd behind me grows, I abandon my contemplation and, as always, stand on the edge. I do not particularly feel like listening to any of these people telling me that I should not be here, though a part of me believes there to be a grain of truth in such accusation. Many of those present here have not been present at the battle, but I am different in that I was not tied to any of the deceased by a tie of emotion (except for having enjoyed playing chess against Sinistra).

As to not aggravate them overly, I stand aside, singling myself out before they single me out. I briefly wonder if it is not a kind of self-pity as well.

I wonder what I am doing here. I did not know the people, I have not witnessed their deaths, and I do not feel any obligation to them. I am a stranger here, unwelcome, and without particular desire to attend. I do not have to watch Potter, if he even is here, and I did not need to take a trip to country-side.

I have run out of excuses. Watching the procession, the burning, the grieving friends and families and bystanders is singularly boring. I do not have it in myself to disturb the memorial by Disapparating now, and walking away would look just as offending. They hate me enough as it is, and, despite my lack of attachment, I do have a measure of respect for the three dead wizards who are being celebrated.

I have come here, so I _will_ endure it until the end.

Three pillars of ugly black smoke rise on the background of light grey sky, and I brace myself against the crying that reaches my ears. Leda Merrythought clutches a handkerchief to her face, but otherwise stares blankly at the gradually disappearing body of her son. Next to her stands a solemn Dumbledore, who could not even for this occasion leave behind his wild clothing style and pretend sanity: he wears (although black) robes with gold and silver embroidered phoenix. It must be a new acquisition of his, because at the last memorial service I have attended with him he was dressed in different, albeit similarly unconventional, garment. I slide over the rows of familiar and semi-familiar faces of children, young people, adults and elders. It is a cogent sample of one half of the magical society.

Down the line, quite far from the burning corpses, Tonks and Moody flank a small person clad in a simple black robe, wearing a hat. As if they sensed me looking at them, they lift their head, and over the distance of sixty yards I meet a pair of green eyes. Potter pulls the brim of the hat lower, hiding his face, and returns to watching the ritual with an interest bordering on academic.

I find it ironic that for him, who lost so many people we _was_ attached to, it is the first time he attends a memorial service.

x

Dumbledore remains behind to speak to the closest surviving kin as the crowd scatters and gradually leaves the Meadow. Under different circumstances, I might have stayed longer as well, but the situation was made uncomfortable to me, and I relish the freedom of departing.

I arrive at Grimmauld Place closely behind the trinity of two Aurors and Potter. Moody refrains from remarks towards me (which is rather unusual) and holds the door open for all three of us. He latches it once we are inside. Potter walks on without a word and disappears in the house.

Tonks, for some unfathomable reason, hugs me briefly, letting go before I can detach any of her limbs. I do not understand, but she does not deign to explain, vanishing in Potter's suit.

"It is hard for the lass." I realise that this is the first time Moody voluntarily speaks civilly to me. I have not met him one on one since my open betrayal in the July Battle, but it is likely that it was that, which finally convinced him that I am truly on the so-called 'Light side'.

"It is hard for everyone," I reply simply, still weary of the man who used to make my life as much worse than it already was as possible. Moody nods, though, not getting into my face, even though he could. This time he even would have a morally legitimate reason.

"Ignore the idiots, Snape. Sometimes it's harder to stay behind than rush ahead… you did as you were told."

Yes, and that is the problem. Should I have done as I was told?

"Sometimes orders should be disobeyed."

Moody lets out a short, bark-like laugh, spinning his artificial eye so that it is trained somewhere upstairs. His mouth tightens, rearranging the mass of scars and wrinkles around it, and I wonder whether I should have kept my mouth shut. He has seemed to have understanding for non-compliance at instances in the past, but I have been a Death Eater, and that shifts the points of view of the most.

"That they should, but we have Potter for that, Snape. You're not the only one watching that kid and, let me tell you, he's something else. He should get proper training, and in two or three years I'd pitch him against Riddle with no worries. He's got that Lion Heart…"

"He is losing his sanity," I hiss, forgetting who I am talking to. However, Moody does not blow up or start accusing me of attempting to discredit the brat.

"And how's that surprising? I've seen two generations of Aurors from the cradle to the grave, Snape, and none of them were sane in the end. The good ones learn to deal with it, the bad ones die. That's the way it is. Potter's going mad because he gets patronised. They'd wrap him in cotton and wait until the very last moment, then stand him in front of Riddle and tell him: 'Kill!'." He scoffs and shakes his head in disgust. "Idiots!"

I remain silent. Moody is one of the very few entities that I would not want to confront under any circumstances, ranking up there with the Dark Lord, Rookwood, Greyback, Dumbledore and, newly, Potter (although the latter only extends to battle and insults related to personal matters).

"You keep on watching the kid, Snape, and help him learn to survive, understand?"

That is not exactly what I expected him to say, although it does not make me happy either. I have been consentient to taking care of Potter's continued _moderately sane_ survival, but teaching the little brat is another matter altogether. Although I now concede that he _is_ intelligent enough to not be a waste of time, past experience shows that he is not agreeable to my teaching style.

I nod anyway, because having Moody off my back is worth it.

x

I do attend dinner due to mind-numbing hunger. I have not realised how many meals I have missed, and quenching the pain in my stomach is worth suffering the brats.

Molly, who spent the entire day on duty in the kitchen, is tired, which I appreciate because it means that she does not have the energy to gripe on me and my lack of eating habits. The students are quiet, as they usually are in my presence (unless their temper temporarily overrides their self-preservation), but there is none of the grim atmosphere that seems prevalent whenever three or more members of the Order meet in one room. They, with the exception of Potter and, to smaller extent also, Draco, remain untouched by the war so far. It should be a positive thought, but I only feel bitter.

I notice Ronald passing Draco a bowl of something or other, exchanging simple pleasantries, and realise that the enmity that was there weeks ago seems to have greatly lessened. Granger and Ginevra have come to accept the Slytherin as a friend, even, although not yet a close one. Still, the picture is one I have never imagined I would see.

I am ripped out of my thoughts as a spoon rattles on a plate. Potter is pressing both his palms against his mouth. His shoulders move forwards as he gags, staring at the surface of white dill soup.

"Harry?!" Granger yelps, worried. Potter ignores her, which raises a wave of exclamations of concern. Draco, sitting next to him, grips his chin and forces him to turn away from the food.

"Harry," he says. Potter realises what is going on, gulps, and lets his hands down. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and when he opens them they are empty. He gazes at Draco.

"I need to keep my mind off it… I need a distraction."

"Do you want to..?" There is a strange, breathy quality to Draco's voice. Potter's eyes widen and his lips part ever so slightly.

"Please," he replies, lengthening the vowel, as if I throes of some emotion. Draco nods, stands and touches the back of Potter's neck.

"I'll just stop by our room for the essentials. Meet you _there_." And he walks out.

All those present need a while to recover, and then gape at Potter as though he said he was going to join Voldemort and his Inner Circle in a orgy. I avoid even glancing in the idiot's direction. They might have just as well announced to everyone that they are having sex! Morons-

Although, on second thought, it was an awfully obvious conclusion, considering the acting abilities I know both of them possess. This might be exactly what they wanted everyone to think… But then, what are they doing that is _so_ illicit that they would _pretend_ to have a sordid affair? Is it Dark Arts? Are they worshipping some evil deity (I do not see that of either of them – not because of the 'evil', but because of the 'deity' part)? Are they torturing small animals?

I admit that I do not have any idea. Potter rises from the table and sets out. I want to follow him, but find that I cannot. The little bastard (one of them) Stuck me to the bench. It takes too long to counter, and by that time Potter is lost in the maze that is this house.

One day, I am going to paint his hide blue.

x

Around eight the two re-emerge, looking tired and worse for wear, but content. They lack any specific signs of afterglow, which settles any doubts I might have had about them, but their obvious closeness and exhaustion is enough to convince the onlookers. No one has the bravery to remark upon it, even though thinly-veiled disgust, horror or incredulity is visible on many faces as they enter the kitchen.

I am present only because Molly is ready to fall asleep on her feet and no one except me could take over the duty. In a fit of altruism (she hopefully won't remember tomorrow) I have offered my assistance. That was before I found that a number of Order members were coming to finalise the plans for tomorrow. The Hogwarts Express is going to be heavily warded and guarded this year, even though it seems to me that an attack is not as likely as it was last year. The open warfare is the only true difference. As depleted as the Dark Lord's forces are, the likelihood of the train being targeted is minimal.

Potter and Draco obviously did not know about the meeting either, because they momentarily stop in the doorway. They recover quickly and aim straight for the basket with rolls, ignoring the looks they are getting when Draco reaches out and takes Potter's hand. They make it look perfectly natural, as though they were both used to it. I know for a fact that it is all an act, but it raises protests among the _guests in Potter's house_.

"You shouldn't hang around the likes of him, Potter."

All eyes are suddenly on the man who spoke. It takes me a while to place the face, but then I remember. A Gryffindor (naturally, I could have guessed that as soon as he opened his mouth); graduated four or five years ago. Level of intelligence approximately that of Crabbe and Goyle. Skilled in altogether nothing, much like Peter Pettigrew used to be. He has changed – dyed his hair blond, had his ears pierced, lost weight and grew an offensively repulsive goatee.

"Who are you?" Potter asks tonelessly.

"Disgleirio Dearborn. You might have heard about my uncle." Potter nods thoughtfully. Wherever he has heard about Caradoc Dearborn from, it left a mark somewhere in that crowded head. 'Disgleirio' flashes a smile full of unnaturally white teeth that makes Draco and the oldest Weasley cringe. Potter pretends that he does not see it.

"Come on, we could hang out and get to know each other… you don't have to be staying here with _them_."

The insult does not truly penetrate my thick skin, but Draco is not as used to these idiots as I am. He frowns, yet a moment later exchanges an amused glance with Potter. The Gryffindor leisurely leans on the table and exaggeratedly surveys Dearborn from blue leather shoes up to the top of his bleached head, pausing for a moment at the goatee. It is probably meant to be attractive, but Potter obviously does not consider it such.

"But I have to stay with Snape. He's my baby-sitter. If you really want to, he could maybe go with us?"

I watch with curiosity, slightly displeased about being called 'a baby-sitter'. However, the barb was directed at Dumbledore and his toadies and I do have appreciation for suitably scathing sarcasm.

Draco rapidly turns away from the scene and presses his hand against his mouth to stifle his sniggering. I strongly suspect some kind of private joke, but Dearborn remains oblivious, taken in by Potter's faux cluelessness.

"You should get away from him. He'll try to corrupt you. He was a Dark wizard-"

"He _is_ a Dark wizard," Potter protests on my behalf. I suppress the urge to hex him, and a moment later the urge to name the eldest Gorgon sister. Claiming that I used to be a Dark wizard is bad enough among these people – if they realise that I am still what one would call a Dark wizard will result in rather painful lack of defence against the crowd with stones.

But Potter, the moronic nutcracker, does not know when to shut up once he gets annoyed. He glares at the man and freezes the victorious expression off his _goateed_ face.

"Darkness is not something that can be _cleaned_ or _healed_." Or _enlightened_. Yes, very nice, very true, and five minutes past the time when I should have shut him up. But there are too many Order members around – I would not be able to dispose of all the witnesses… "On the other hand, I don't understand why Darkness _should_ be 'rectified'."

Great Merlin, they will crucify us together – Draco, Potter and me. It will be a cosy little Golgotha here. I just hope they will not let me die upside-down.

"He is evil!" exclaims the scorned Dearborn. Draco sits on the floor, clutching on his belly, laughing openly. He receives a number of scowls, apparently having just outed himself as another paragon of true evil.

"Wow!" Potter gasps with wonder. He stares at Dearborn with wide eyes. The _goateed_ idiot steps forward, mistakenly secure in his knowledge of Potter's adoration of his intelligence. Apparently, irony is a concept he has yet to encounter. "And how did you figure _that_?"

"He kills people," Dearborn solemnly explains. Potter looks away from him, frowns, scratches his head and looks back.

"I do, too. Does that make _me_ evil?" Molly chokes and he spins to face her, abandoning the sarcasm for genuine exasperation. "Oh, please, Mrs Weasley, don't go into hysterics. Death is something that happens exactly as often as life. It's a part of a cycle. And sometimes it's necessary to bring it about so that _truly bad_ things don't happen."

The woman is taken aback by Potter's rant, enough to not start yelling at him. It is nice to see that I am not the only person confused by the whelp – the rest of them are simply too stupid to realise it.

"But… you're just a boy-"

Some people do not learn. Has he not told Dumbledore straight a few days ago that he will not be treated as a child?

"You knew I killed to save Ginny… I was _twelve_ at the time." _I_ did not know that! Damn him! Just when I think he would not surprise me again… Although I should have known that Dumbledore would not have given out a Special Award for Services to the School cheaply.

"Why did it not matter back then, but it does now?" He slowly turns around, meeting the eyes of everyone in the dining room, his disappointment becoming gradually more pronounced. "The point is, Snape's not evil. He's cranky, crabby and cynical… but that does not add together to evil."

Should I be flattered?

"They have already corrupted you, Potter!" Dearborn exclaims and with flourish lifts his wand. Potter has ample time to shield or avoid, but he ignores the threat, calmly watching the approaching _non-verbal_ (and therefore unidentified) hex.

It bounces off his personal ward and hits Dearborn in the face, scalding off _all_ of his facial hair – eyebrows, eyelashes and the damnable excuse for a goatee – and rendering him unconscious. Potter approaches the sprawled body and takes a close look.

"Yep. Definitely became smarter."

In the corner of the room, Draco catches second breath and continues with his hysterical fit of giggles.


	11. Staff and Students

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Send more! I've gone to the dentist's today, so I need cheering up…  
Brynn

x

Staff and Students

x

The morning dawns bright and clear and I curse the Sun for waking me up hours before I had to. The damage is done, though, and I lift my protesting body from the bed. At six a.m. it is already shaping to be a bad day.

After two mugs of coffee I reconsider, and decide that it is a good thing that I have woken up so early, since I am able to avoid the chaos when the brats invade the ground floor and everyone begins to behave irrationally due to some kind of annual pre-school-year madness. I have seen it before, and therefore have a good reason to want to escape.

Potter limps into the kitchen at half to seven, looking completely awake even without caffeine. The brat, as opposed to myself, is a true insomniac.

"Morning," he announces into the serenity. Elphias nods to him from the corner where he nurses a cup of tea, hanging onto consciousness only by the stimulating effects of the drink. I give the whole world a glare.

"You are awake early," Elphias notes, more to maintain conversation than out of interest. Potter shrugs and pours himself a glass of milk.

"I don't sleep well these days."

That is an outrageous understatement, but I am inclined to believe that Potter meant it more as a phrase than an actual assessment of his nightmares. I watch him gaze into the depths of the white liquid in his glass.

"None of us do," the old wizard replies blandly. There is a relatively new scar starting in the middle of his cheek, curving downwards and ending somewhere under his shirt. I am going to spend a lot of time brewing Dreamless Sleep in the next few months.

"Potter," I say, drawing his attention away from the – apparently fascinating – milk for a moment, "I'll give you a potion if you want."

He bethinks it and nods.

"Give me some for Draco."

That is not what I wanted to hear. I would give him enough for both of them, but he is too stubborn to accept the help of chemistry. I know his type of people – _our_ type. We do not trust things we do not understand, and Merlin knows Potter does not understand Potions. Or maybe I read too much into it and this is simply Potter's masochism… The problem I see in it is that he is growing physically weaker day by day. Emaciated and sleep-deprived he will not be able to train, not to speak about fighting.

He should at least drink his damn milk, but he keeps staring at it, a potential grimace hidden behind the blank mask.

"What's with you and Malfoy, anyway?" Elphias wonders. Potter glances up again.

"He's my ward. I'm his guardian," he replies simply, sighs, changes the milk to _look_ like tea and drinks it. I remember his reaction to the soup yesterday – it appears that white colour unsettles him. I have not seen such indications before, so I ascribe it to whatever happened on the twenty-eight.

Both of us ignore Elphias as he sputters, dribbling tea all over himself. I clean the empty mug wordlessly and head out. I have lessons to prepare for tomorrow, which should have been prepared weeks ago, were it not for Potter and his continued skirmishes with a certain Dark Lord.

x

I became so accustomed to Grimmauld Place that being in Hogwarts unsettles me. The walk across the grounds makes me queasy. I _almost_ smell blood and gore, _almost_ see broken bodies, _almost_ hear screams and curses. It makes me hate the castle almost as much as I did back in the seventies. I ever appreciated – and still do – the relative safety it provides, but memories tied to it are darker and darker with every year.

On the way to the staff room I encounter only Pomfrey, and she gives me nary a hurried greeting before she turns a corner and disappears in the direction of the hospital wing. I suppose that means that there are still some patients in critical condition. The woman must not have had real sleep since Thursday.

My case is almost empty, with only my time-table and lists of students in my classes. There are less of them than usually; I sit down at the table and count them. Ten. Fourth and fifth year both fit into one class.

With trepidation I find the current sixth-years. There are more than just Granger, thankfully, but the sight is not a happy one. The list has been hastily updated by crossing out names of students who are _dead_. The sheet of parchment makes the war somehow more vicious, more cold, more real. These were sixteen-year-olds supposed to learn to mix intermediate Healing Potions.

Boot (crossed out), Bulstrode (crossed out), Corner (crossed out), Davies (crossed out), Granger, Greengrass, Macmillan, Nott (crossed out), Potter – _Potter?!_

I gape for a while, then resolve to clear the confusion as soon as possible. Their first class – and Potter's last, unless I am very much mistaken – is tomorrow. I move further down the list.

Turpin, Zabini.

Six students. It could have been worse; there could have been less of them. There are going to be, actually, once I kick out Potter.

"Ah, Severus," I start at the voice. Dumbledore is watching me, twinkle-less for once. I have not noticed him entering. "I expected you later today."

I very much do not want to socialise right now. I gather the parchments and make to leave, halting only when I remember Pomfrey's bedraggled state and a thought strikes me.

"Do send for Delacour, Headmaster. She is sitting in Headquarters twiddling thumbs – she would be of better use here in the hospital wing."

A brief frown of concentration crosses Dumbledore's features as he puzzles out why Pomfrey would want the French sugar princess to help her instead of a more people-friendly or a better educated person, and then he nods in comprehension.

"Ah, certainly. Medi-magic is a part of curriculum at Beauxbatons. Thank you for that excellent suggestion, Severus; I am sure Poppy will appreciate your concern."

I do not put much weight on such flimsy, shallow appreciation, but refrain from shrugging disinterestedly. I do not need to attract more negative feelings by showing off my callousness _pointlessly_.

"Have a nice day, Headmaster. I shall see you at the feast."

x

The sky is dark by the time the students arrive and start filing into the Great Hall. Myriad of candles hovering in the mid-air illuminate the area.

The second- through seventh-years are already seated before I find Potter and his clique. They occupy the very end of the Gryffindor table – as far from the occasionally watchful eyes of the staff as it is possible to be and still get food. They are on the receiving end of many dubious, but many more awed looks. The attention is not completely ridiculous yet, but bothersome enough so that they use their dorm-mates as a buffer.

Draco, I am pleased to find, is sitting at the Slytherin table, having separated himself from Potter for a change, although he looks distinctly unhappy about the arrangement. It is likely that he was _forced_ to sit there. In this instance I, uncharacteristically, completely agree with Potter. There should not be any Death Eaters or active supporters of the Dark Lord left within the school…

I realise how feebly that 'should' sounds to me. I shall have to speak to Draco about the matter of his safety – as soon as word reaches the Dark Lord about his betrayal, there is going to be a bounty on his head. A student does not have to be a supporter to take such an opportunity. Any enterprising wizard (and there are many in Slytherin left) would sell Draco out for a nice untaxed sum.

"Why so morose, Severus?" I turn to the side where the chair (the one that trades owners more frequently than any other) was filled while I contemplated Draco's residence within the dungeons. The voice is somewhat familiar – I must know this man from before, but I cannot place him. He looks like Moody's contemporary, but without the destruction wrought upon his body by Dark wizards and creatures. He wears trousers and a shortened robe – an attire so atypical among wizards that I could never forget just who used to wear it.

Vindictus Viridian, my teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts for three years, author of several books on duelling for different audiences – Aurors, competitive duellists, commoners and children. My eyes widen marginally as I meet his. This man should have been hired in 1991st, instead of Quirrel. My life might have been easier. Perhaps we would not have had a war now…

"My, my, I seem to have rendered you speechless. Finally. If I remember correctly, you were particularly difficult to get the better of, even as a little sprite."

"Professor," I reply with a nod of my head.

"It is Vindictus to you, Severus. We are colleagues now… and from what I've heard it is an honour."

"On my side," I tell him quite truthfully, and consider the introductory conversation closed. I return to student-watching, concentrating particularly hard on those I have spent the last month with.

Company for Draco finds itself quickly, and he soon sits and speaks with those who previously were left on the outside of the Slytherin hierarchy, due to lack of interest in the in-House politics – Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, the new Slytherin prefects.

Something within me, not as cold as I have assumed it to be for long years, aches at the sight. My entire sixth year was reduced to _three_ students.

"There are very few Slytherins…" Viridian remarks faux casually. I wonder which House _he_ used to belong to. As far as I can remember, he always got on well with all four…

"We killed the rest back in July," I reply in the same tone. A shadow flashes over his expression and I turn to face him with a challenge. He can try to get me flustered, but after my outwitting the Dark Lord on many an occasion, he does not stand a chance any better than Ronald Weasley does.

Our little chat is interrupted by the arrival of the first-years. There is a steady thirty-six of them, an infusion the student body needs more desperately than ever. Even 1981st had not seen so many empty spaces at the Welcoming Feast.

I give up on the line of thoughts and concentrate on the Sorting Hat's annual message and subsequent Sorting Ceremony.

x

"Welcome to Hogwarts!" Dumbledore exclaims, twinkle-eyed, standing in front of the school with spread arms. The scene is almost the same as last year, but the audience has changed. There are more disparaging and less awed expressions, as if the glamour was lost. With the exception of Gryffindor, the older students at each table form their own group, uniting to compensate for their small numbers.

The Headmaster pretends not to notice, going on as if this year was perfectly normal, as if it happened all the time.

"We have several new additions to the staff this season. Please, welcome Professor Viridian, who will teach you Defence Against the Dark Arts…" He makes a pause for the applause. It is sparse, scattered, mostly coming from the Ravenclaw table – from students who read his books. I notice both Draco and Potter clapping. Noteworthy, perhaps, unless it is basic courtesy (which I have seen neither of them exhibiting before). Viridian nods to them.

"And on the post of the Astronomy teacher, meet Professor Oglethorpe." This time the applause is practically non-existent. Oglethorpe turns out to be a very tall young woman with long braided hair. It this the first time I see her. She stands and waves, and my first assessment of her is that she should be of no danger. I am glad to see that there are no Death Eaters (apart from me) or potential homicidal maniacs on the staff this year.

"You will meet Mr McAllister, our new caretaker, within a few days. Remember, Forbidden Forest is _strictly_ forbidden," Dumbledore emphasises. It would be easier to inform the students that the wards do not extend far beyond the line of trees. Even Potter would not be idiotic enough to wander past the wards, unless he was on some kind of heroic mission like last year, but in that case no restriction would stop him. "Furthermore, Hogsmeade visits are rescinded until further notice. Quidditch shall resume in the second week of classes."

This time the applause is deafening. Goblets, plates and silverware rattle as dozens of fists pound on the desks. I suppress a groan, peripherally noticing that neither Potter nor Draco take part in the madness, looking at each other over the heads of their schoolmates. Potter shakes his head.

Dumbledore lifts his hand asking for silence, which gradually descends, disturbed by Pince's quiet sobs from the end of the staff table. Pomfrey hesitantly pats her back.

"And now, what you all have been so impatiently waiting for – food!"

x

The 2nd of September 1996 falls on Monday.

The weather is, according to the ceiling in the Great Hall, the same as yesterday, and I escape breakfast quickly to avoid the chattering masses of adolescents. I do not have first-years today, so I suppose it could have been worse. I have fourth and then fifth year, both of which act subdued, almost cowed. They brew a potion of the level they should have mastered last year and leave with a remarkably low loss of points.

I am used to classes consisting of all four Houses – all my N.E.W.T. classes are like that – but to see them sitting together, even collaborating at times, is a wholly new experience. Apparently, it _only_ took the eradication of quarter of the student body to bring about some inter-House unity. Weasley went as far as to create a pair with Harper. Even in Potions, the war is so easily visible.

"Good afternoon, Professor," says a cautious female voice. I look up and realise that I have spent the entire lunch break brooding. Granger is standing in the doorway, uncertain about whether to enter or wait in the hallway. I should not have left the door open, but in the end it does not matter. I gesture her to come in, and she takes her usual place in the first row on the 'Gryffindor' side. I watch impassively as she pulls two textbooks out of her bag, puts the one required for the class of the desk and opens the second one. It has a cover of newspaper.

I curse Potter for introducing the idea to his fanclub – soon the teachers in Hogwarts will not have any clue as to what the students are reading in their free time. Judging by Granger's level of concentration, it is not Quidditch through the Ages.

The pair of Slytherin prefects arrives next, taking the bench opposite the one occupied by Granger. I notice them exchange civil greetings with the Gryffindor. Undoubtedly Draco's influence. It is such a pity that he is not in this class but, even after a long contemplation, I have not constructed a valid reason for him to be allowed into Advanced Potions.

Two minutes before the bell rings, Potter finally deigns to show up, on the heels of Turpin and Macmillan (who are both quite stumped by the small number of students present). He wears Regulus's robes, and I realise that no one had ascertained that the things he had lost were replaced. I have a sneaking suspicion that all the clothes he owns originally belonged to some dead Black. Does he have school supplies? Textbooks?

Does Draco have textbooks?

"Afternoon, sir," he says in my direction and aims for the vacant seat next to Granger, but I quickly disabuse him of the notion that he can just walk in and I shall accept him into my class. I do not care that he is the Boy Who Lived in the least.

"Potter, you are aware that I only accept Outstanding students."

He turns, and a small smile appears on his face. He reaches into the pocket of his robe and, as if he anticipated my protests to his presence, recovers a folded parchment. He spreads it and hands it to me.

It is not a note from the Headmaster as I anticipated, though. It is his O.W.L. results – above average, I note absently, good enough for him to become an Auror if he wished to pursue that career. My eyes slide over the marks and stop at the one I searched for.

Outstanding.

Impossible. Potter cannot… could not have achieved Outstanding. There must be some kind of foul play… But right now I cannot prove it, and I cannot kick him out of the classroom without a reason. I shall have to suffer one period with him, then. Fortunately, today is not a double lesson.

"Go sit down now, but stay after class," I growl. Potter nods, accepts back his report, and obediently takes his place next to Granger. At least the girl knows enough about the subject to prevent him from blowing up the room and all its contents.

I wave my wand at the blackboard and uncover the instructions.

"This is Blue Mould Tincture. You learnt the theory last year. Get to work."

x

There are three samples of three perfectly brewed potions on my desk, and I am pondering whether a hundred percent successful class has ever happened to me before, while the students file out. I wish for a glass of scotch… or at least a cup of coffee. It would not do to drink at job. I still have the third-years ahead of me. If they are going to be anything like this group, though (doubtful), I might learn to enjoy my Monday afternoons.

A quiet shuffle alerts me to the fact that I am not as alone as I would wish to be. When I glance up, I find Potter perched on the side of the bench, patiently waiting for me to emerge from my musings. His expression is unreadable, but he focuses on me with intensity that makes me uncomfortable.

I have watched him throughout the lesson, having opted for surveillance from the front of the classroom rather than a close one, and Potter is not nearly as inept as I considered him to be. I am not nearly as certain that his O.W.L was marked with bias as I was an hour ago.

"It is a shame Draco isn't in this class," he says when I procrastinate too long. "I know he enjoys making potions very much."

I know that, too, and regret that it is so, but I have to keep high standards and enforce them. I cannot afford to allow semi-competent nincompoops to try their hands at complicated potions. Pomfrey has enough work as it is.

"He did not fulfil the requirements, Potter. Not even your pleading will get him in."

The boy shakes his head.

"Oh no, I am not Lucius. With me what he gets he must first deserve…" I should have expected that. In a way it seems unfair, since Potter has received so much he definitely had not deserved, but he has never been spoilt. Draco has, and Potter is trying to make up for it now – it would make his efforts vain if he attempted to convince, bribe or blackmail me into giving Draco what he wants. "But, on the other hand, everything that he deserves he gets. He's found that he prefers it my way."

I suspect it is rather the way Potter wishes it had been for him, but I am not interested (nor involved) enough to pry. I even concede that Potter deserves to be in this class, however miraculous such a turn of events is.

"It was, admittedly, surprising to realise that he did not qualify."

Potter looks up from the pile of books and parchments he is arranging. He does not even have a bag to carry his things in. We – the Order – have failed him again… although he should have reminded himself to someone.

"You kept complimenting him so much," Potter tells me, without a hint of accusation, "that he got it in his head that he was far beyond his level… and flunked the tests."

"What…" I should have anticipated that. I knew Draco was not stupid, but I disregarded how conceited and arrogant he had become. He thought the stars shone just for him; his excellence in Potions must have seemed a given. "I thought he was intelligent," I say, not bothering to conceal my disappointment.

"Even the smartest people are susceptible to suggestion," Potter replies lightly and waves it off, as if it did not matter. "If you repeat something often enough, they will believe it. I was convinced that I was failing Potions by my own merit, so I studied as hard as possible to get a passing grade. Imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope and found that I had an O."

"The Ministry's expectations are too low…" I know it is a lie, though. I do not know how to deal with the disappointment. Normally I vent my emotions by taking off points and assigning detentions, but this coping method would not work in this instance.

Potter sees it as his blessed duty to rub my face in it.

"No, Professor. Yours are… I do not want to say unreasonable, because they are not…" Thank you, Potter, I am so eternally grateful for your kind assessment! "…but very, very high. And yet… Draco got an E. Don't get me wrong, he's extremely talented… that's why he got the E… even though he didn't study."

This is the proof that I was right in 1981st, when Dumbledore wanted me to teach and I protested that I was not suited for the profession. Draco's O.W.L. mark is the evidence of my utter failure – such a talented student is not found in every year.

"Is there something you wished to tell me?" he asks, abandoning the pretentious 'sir'.

"Two points, Mr Potter."

He lifts his eyebrows in mocking disbelief (something he has adopted from Draco), and gathers his books in his arms.

"Then have a nice day. I have to run or I'll be late for Charms."

He does not wait for me to dismiss him, simply dismissing himself. I detract further ten points from Gryffindor, realising that two was truly a laughable number to take for disrespect towards my person. I must find an excuse to give him a detention on Thursday.

x

There is a staff meeting on Wednesday between the last class and dinner. I miss it because one of the second year Hufflepuffs explodes a Draught of Melinda Martington and I have to treat three of his classmates before I can leave. I send them to the hospital wing and assign detention to the perpetrator. Being practical, I tell him to come after dinner and clean up the mess that covers two thirds of the wall and continually spreads over the floor.

When I finally arrive to the staff room, my colleagues are already leaving. I stick to the shadows until most of them are gone, and only then approach the door. Dumbledore is still inside, most likely waiting for me. His 'helpful' portraits have most certainly informed him of what held me.

"Ah, Severus! How are your second-years?" I briefly close my eyes to avoid the twinkling gaze and reassure myself that my mental barriers are solid. They are.

"In as many pieces as they were yesterday," I deadpan, more because it is expected of me than because I find it a source of dark humour. I do not think there is anything amusing about pre-pubertal brats blowing up pitiful attempts at potions.

"Wonderful!" the Headmaster exclaims enthusiastically and beckons me into the room. "This," he inclines his head towards the only other occupant of the room, "is Mister McAllister. He succeeds in position the unfortunate Mr Filch."

McAllister is an ugly little man with just as little (and, as far as I can tell, just as ugly) magical ability. He looks more slippery than Borgin and more sadistic than Filch… though less than Bellatrix. I do not understand why the Headmaster lets these kinds of people hold positions of authority in the castle – while students are bothersome nasty ill-behaved buggers, it still is not enough to warrant literal torture.

"Good afternoon, Mr Snape," he says to me. His voice oozes more oil than _Helianthus Penguins_ on a sunny day. I meet his eyes and a brief scan of his mind tells me all I need to know – he will give the students as hard a time as Filch did, but he will not intentionally _physically_ harm anyone. Dumbledore probably would not hire a truly dangerous person… but considering his track record, I am weary. I started being weary of his judgement a year too late as it was, after Quirrel was proved to be housing Dark Lord spirits in his own body.

"It is _Professor_ Snape, Mr McAllister," I let him know that his pitiful attempt at garnering favour with me failed. I will not treat scum like him as an equal – and he better remember that he is not. Filch had loved Hogwarts (considered it his home), Harlequins (which I had not wanted to know) and, quite possibly, Pince. Those emotions gave him conscience. It was a black, twisted thing, but it was there.

I do not doubt McAllister had his own surgically removed at his earliest convenience.

"Have I missed something, Headmaster?" I ask straight, unwilling to spend more time in one small room with the new caretaker than what is necessary.

"No, I cannot think of anything, Severus. We have discussed the apparent reconciliation between the Houses, but I think that is old news to you – it must have made for uneventful Potions classes."

That it most certainly did not, but I do concede that the brats are easier to work with when they concentrate on brewing instead on the tension and ways they could make each other's lives more difficult.

"Then you shall excuse me. I have no intention to miss dinner."

I aim for the Great Hall, mentally cursing Dumbledore and his lack of concern for the students. I was already hoping for a year when there was no psychopathic individual on staff after he introduced Viridian and Oglethorpe, but it seems that I was celebrating prematurely.


	12. Doublecrossers

A/N: Hello there! You have anticipated it, and here it is… Read, enjoy review!  
Brynn 

x

Double-crossers 

x

I change my mind about assigning the detention. A fragile equilibrium was established between Potter and I, and I am loathe to descend back into mutual malignancy without a good reason. We both still wear the rings – while I am aware that he would not go searching for trouble, I know he will, without peradventure, get into some. Besides, I have seen for myself that Hogwarts wards no not prevent possession from outside them.

I tap the tip of my quill against the rim of the inkwell, dislodge the overflowing red drop back into the vessel and cross out an entire paragraph (if it can be called such) of the essay in front of me.

Apparently, I never shall escape singling Potter out in class. I pretend to ignore him, unless he does something stupid and endangers himself or people around him (though that has yet to occur since the beginning of the year). To Potter, that _is_ preferential treatment.

Today's lesson, however, has started with him dropping a glass beaker. He caught it before it hit the floor, sure, but the fact that it happened in the first place was akin to an alarm. For the past hour I have been watching him closer than usually – so closely, in fact, that I have almost missed Macmillan adding whole runespoor scales instead of powdered ones. That pocket catastrophe was prevented by Granger, who had the presence of mind to not trust a Hufflepuff with volatile ingredients.

"Macmillan, ten points for idiocy. Potter, stay after class."

I rub the bridge of my nose, mentally plead for early and painless end to this lesson, and divert my attention back to the pitiful excuse for an essay.

x

We keep meeting like this.

He sits on the worktable and it scarcely even crosses my mind to berate him. He gets closer (marginally) to my line of sight like this, and I do not particularly care about school property…

"What is wrong with you, Potter?"

He stares at the backs of his hands, one adorned with a simple metallic band, and remains silent. My eyes stray to the clock on my desk, before I recall that today is Thursday, and therefore this has been the last class of the day. Potter has all the time until tomorrow morning to waste, and I… likewise.

"The sooner you tell me, the sooner you can get out of here and join your little fanclub."

He looks at me the way I imagine Dumbledore would, and on top of my headache, it makes my temper rise. He makes it clear, though, that he is not in a hurry.

"It does not concern you," Potter grumbles, looking at his pile of books to elude my eyes. He should have told Lupin that he needed a bag – it would take but a trip to Diagon Alley to get him one. Anyone from the Order could take five minutes from whatever they were doing there to make his life easier. But Potter remains silent, distrustful of adults to the point when he does not want their help, or simply considering his discomfort unworthy of such attention.

How I have misjudged him.

"It does-"

"No," he says, shaking his head resolutely. "Not unless it has influence on my work in class, and it does not."

"You dropped a glass, Potter." I glare at him. He glares back.

"And I caught it." Which is the truth and makes it all the harder to build up support from the half-baked allegations that are all I have. On the other hand, he knows perfectly well that there _is_ a problem, and that makes him defensive.

"You should not have dropped it in the first place." He frowns, seemingly at the cover of Advanced Potion-Making, absently brushing the vivid writing with his fingers. "You have a choice. You can discuss it now with me, or later with the Headmaster. But choose quickly; I am rapidly running out of patience." Which is mostly due to the headache and my habit of intense dislike towards this boy.

I am convinced that he is going to tell me something that would warrant loss of points for strong language and high-tail out of the room, but he once again proves that it does not work that way with him. Either that, or me mentioning Dumbledore _persuaded_ him into talking.

"I've got nightmares," he says simply. That does not tell me much – he always has nightmares. "It's visions, only these days it's through Nagini's eyes mostly… Lots of dead people, Muggles, Light families, my former classmates who were pulled out of school… the Abercrombies last night. It's just… exhausting…" He falls silent again, playing with a ripped edge of a sheet of parchment with his Potions notes. It is disconcerting to hear the lack of concern in his speech. Granted, he had no emotional attachment to these people – but I have yet to see any sign that he had had emotional attachment to Diggory, and that death struck him harder than I would have expected.

"The ring did not alert me." I am trying to make sense of this. I do not doubt his honesty in speaking of the visions, but when he had one in Grimmauld Place, the ring woke me up. I do not understand why these are different.

"Yeah… it's Voldemort casting Cruciatus that hurts… Nagini doesn't do much except bite and kill a few people here and there and keep an eye on the Death Eaters for Voldemort while they go on rampage." He finally looks up, and a smirk curls his lips. "There's not many of them left. Not more than twenty bodies."

"But among them are Rodolphus Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback," I state, and Potter's smirk fails. His expression disappears again, leaving the blankness behind. He nods, as if I needed his agreement. I suppose that he does have a lot to say about and to those two people.

"Macnair, Pucey and-"

"You know who they are?"

Potter laughs weakly.

"Those I've met before. But I can describe them; I know what they are like, I know how they think…" I realise I am gaping at him, when he looks away again and shrugs. "I tried to get people to listen to me."

x

My talk with Potter in the end generates little new information, but helps clarify which of the Death Eaters survived the battle at the orphanage. The Order managed to count the dead werewolves – there was twelve of them, the only one to escape was Greyback – but they ran from the premises when the fire started.

By the time the Muggle fire brigade arrived, the evidence was lost.

Thanks to Potter's conscious' nightly excursions, we can be certain that the surviving group consists of Fenrir Greyback, Rodolphus Lestrange, Walden Macnair, Augustus Rookwood, Alecto Carrows, Mercury Gibbon, Peter Pettigrew, Antigona Yaxley, Marcus Flint, Claudius Warrington and Adrian Pucey. There are others whom Potter could not name, although the description of one of them matches Stamford Jorkins suspiciously well. Potter has a clear picture of four I cannot identify, and a shadowy one of two to five more.

Either way, despite the small numbers, it is an intimidating group.

Potter and I have relocated to my office for the discussion – a place that holds many negative common memories – and endured the gloomy atmosphere with unexpected decorum. He started out seated on the chair opposite me, but, after nearly avoiding falling off it, he relocated to the floor. He sits crouched at the foot of the wall on his bunched outer robe, isolating himself from the chill of the stone as best as he can. His eyes are narrowed; his head lolls to the side.

"Do not fall asleep here, Potter. I would not bother carrying you into bed, even if Pomfrey killed me for letting you die from pneumonia."

He has the guts to smile at that and close his eyes completely.

"Potter!" I bark at him. He sighs, straightens and rubs his eyes.

"S'ry…" he mumbles. "I'm dead on my feet… well, dead anyway." He rolls his shoulders, eliciting a series of pops, and moans with discontent. I glance at the clock; it is well past dinner. He should not be here.

"Go to bed, Potter. If you find out or remember more, we can resume this on another day."

He mumbles something and looks quizzically up at me. The weariness is easily readable in his body language and mimic, but there is also expectation. He must think that whatever sound he just issued was comprehensible.

"Was I supposed to understand that?"

He is lucky that my headache has long since receded, otherwise I would subtract points for antagonising me.

"Teach me," he says quietly, but distinctly enough.

"What?" Years of pretending to be a Death Eater pretending not to be a Death Eater supposedly taught me to hide surprise, therefore he mistakes my exclamation for a question with an actual point.

"Occlumency. Anything useful." He leans back against the wall, just like he was after Dumbledore's interrogation in the Headquarters – weak and very, very tired, but determined. I dreaded this day, even though I thought it would be long in coming. Potter asks me for guidance, which I cannot exactly refuse him… but I shall not surrender without a fight. My assistance is not easy to get.

"What are you blathering on about, Potter?" My scowl does not work on him anymore. He looks back evenly, completely ignoring the verbal attack.

"Teach me. Please. I went to Dumbledore, and he flat out refused. Sometimes I get the feeling that he doesn't want me to survive this war." I cannot believe that of the Headmaster. His past decisions involving the Boy Who Lived have often been questionable, but Potter is crucial for the outcome of the war, and Dumbledore wants to win it. There must be a different explanation for the lack of training our saviour receives.

I strongly suspect it to be the same stupidity that made the Order disregard Potter's contributions to the warfare and tried to force him to stay out of 'danger'. That, or general senility.

"He might be trying to push the two of us into a working relationship," I tell him in the end, waking him from another almost-slumber he fell in during the long while of silence. I do not believe it, but Potter in his current state might.

"But… we already have a working relationship. Don't we?" Of course we have, what kind of question is that? He is smart, he cannot misunderstand that, not even fatigued as he is. I have just spent hours with him alone in my office and neither of us came to any harm. I even tolerated minor disrespect and did not berate him for lack of manners, accommodating his physical and mental state. If this is not a 'working relationship', then I do not know what constitutes one.

He turns to me, with pleading eyes like two green _ignes fatui_. So that is it – he has seen or heard something and needs reassurance. Why is it me again put in this position? Have I not given him enough in the flea-infested old house of his? I should not be asked for comfort… But I grant it, for the humanity of that _need_ in turn reassures me.

"Yes, we do. But he does not know that behind closed doors we are civil – he only sees that among other people we are not."

x

I doubt that Potter retains much of the conversation, nevertheless, I concede that it will be for the best for everyone if I stand to my word and schedule two or three hours a week to spend teaching him how to kill faster and better.

If he emerges from the Gryffindor Tower at all on Friday, I do not know about it. I am accosted by an irate Zanthia Baddock on the way from the classroom to my private quarters.

"Professor! Professor Snape!"

I pause and turn to face the girl. I am not an approachable person, and even my Slytherins often hesitate before they bring up a problem with me, but this particular girl never seemed to accept the fact. She has too much of a Gryffindor in her, but ranks among the best in her year in Potions, so I tolerate it.

"Miss Baddock." I do my best to convey my displeasure about being detained on my way to two days of relative freedom on Friday afternoon. She looks apologetic, but insists nevertheless.

"I'm sorry, sir, but all the other houses have already booked the Quidditch Pitch, and Draco Malfoy does nothing! When we asked him about it he said he didn't want to be the Captain! Could you please talk to him, sir…" She steps from one foot to the other and back, nervously twiddling with the end of her pony-tail. "If he still doesn't want to, could you please assign someone else? Draco's the best Quidditch player we have, but if he really doesn't want to…" she shrugs. "There's no sense in forcing him…"

Draco seems to have taken up Potter's annoying habit of surprising me. His appointment as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain has somehow been passed without my contribution, even though I would have agreed with it if asked. That he does not want to take the position… I know for a fact that he yearned for it in the past. It used to be one of his more realistic dreams. That he would refuse it now worries me.

"Do you know where he is now, Miss Baddock?"

The girl nods.

"In the common room, sir."

"Very well. I shall speak to him. You may go." I continue toward my quarters to put away the stack of essays I shall have the _joy_ of marking tonight.

"Thank you, sir!"

x

The Slytherin common room is quieter than I am used to it being, although it might be because I rarely come here while classes are still in session. Draco, it seems, has Friday afternoons free, and I do not teach the last two periods before dinner (which I intended to spend in blithe solitude, or, if the fancy strikes me, perhaps in the company of a glass of Alsikescotch). I do not dislike this place, but the memories tied to it cause me to avoid it as much as possible.

Draco occupies 'his' armchair. He has commandeered it as soon as he returned for this school-year, in stead on the couch that used to 'belong' to him and his two thugs in the years past. When I enter, he is sitting (quite against etiquette) on his folded legs, leaning sideways against the backrest, engrossed in a (newspaper-packed) book. How quickly and efficiently Potter managed to counter his pureblood upbringing.

"Mr Malfoy."

He looks up. There is no sign of surprise visible on him as he gestures me to the nearest couch without saying a word. I ignore the, likely unintentional, slight and remain standing.

"This is about Quidditch, is it not?" I raise an eyebrow at him, but it does not work. Instead of Potter picking up some manners from him, Draco seems to have adopted the Golden Boy's impudence.

"That would be correct. I was under the impression that you coveted the Captaincy."

He checks the number of the page he is reading, shuts the book and puts it down on the armchair's seat next to his leg.

"I used to. I changed my mind. Besides, no one bothered to ask me whether I wanted it."

"Do you wish to withdraw from the team?" It would be a loss for Slytherin, especially since the pool of potential players has been drastically reduced, but forcing a skilled flyer to play would have a less positive effect than letting someone enthusiastic, even if less accomplished, to take the position.

"There's no real competition…" he concludes melancholically. He misses the past years, the trivial problems and confrontations with other students that resulted in quick jaunt to hospital wing rather than a memorial service. "The Ministry didn't revoke Harry's life ban, so he can't play even if he wanted to. But he doesn't… not really. The Gryffindors have been biting his head off about it, as if there was something he could do…"

I have not been aware of that development, but Potter has enough to struggle with, even without the blasted sport. He is falling asleep in classes – on a broom he would likely kill himself. Draco obviously worries about him, but I doubt he truly understands the detachment from everyday school life that Potter feels.

"There is still Chang." At least I think so. I am not sure – many Ravenclaws bent to the lure of power and knowledge the Dark Lord promised. I have lost conception of which students still attend and which of those that do not do not because they are dead.

"She's been pathetic last year. Summerby is better, but still not worth getting on a broom."

I suppress a sigh.

"Draco, you know very well that I cannot force you to play. However, you still do not know whether there will be a challenge or not – the teams are not even complete yet. Incidentally, who is Gryffindor Captain?" It would have been Bell, but who was put in her place?

"Ron," Draco says. I need a moment of thought before I realise that he is talking about the second youngest Weasley. It sounds strange from his mouth, but I will have to get used to it – Draco has adopted Potter's fanclub as his own friends, and I do not intend to alienate the boy by disparaging his companions.

"_Incidentally_," Draco says with a hint of a sneer, "he is likely to be a far better Captain than I could ever amount to be. Objectively, Slytherin has no chance on the Quidditch Cup this year. It's simply not worth the bother…"

"And yet you do not wish to withdraw from the team." If he did, he would have told me so. This stalling means that he does not know what he wants, or that he is not sure whether his decision is right.

"I do enjoy flying…"

It is against the nature of Slytherins to search for compromises, but I do so in order so save at least a part of my Friday evening to myself.

"Then I shall appoint a different Captain. However, I expect you to try out for the team and do your best if you are drafted." I phrase it as an order, although I technically cannot command him to compete. Apparently, my solution is acceptable to him.

It only leaves me with the conundrum of who to select as a Quidditch Captain, when there is no one with any experience on team left in Slytherin.

x

The issue solves itself by the end of the evening.

Draco sends me a letter with one of the school owls, since I am not approachable personally by any way except the Floo network, which the students do not have access to.

Apparently, word of Draco's rebellion reached Potter, who _explained_ to him exactly why he wanted to retain the captaincy.

I roll the glass in my fingers and watch the liquid in it swirl around as I think about the child. Potter. An apparition with the dead eyes of his dead mother, his father's penchant for trouble, yet lacking the supposed maliciousness I resented him for… and a mind all on its own. So fragile and at the same time so… so alarmingly powerful… Dozens of respectable wizards, many of them trained and hardened Aurors, fell to Bellatrix Lestrange only. And yet the boy constructed a personal ward, took a blade, and sliced through the Dark Lord's Inner Circle with ease that makes my throat go dry just by recalling it.

I take a gulp of the liquid and relish in the slight burning that it generates. It is apparent that there is little that can stand against Potter and survive – not Death Eaters, not dementors, not werewolves… the ordinary and exceptional horrors of the wizarding world will one day near in coming (if they do not already) quake at the mere mention of the Boy Who Lived.

How many are there left who can say no to him?

I think I'm drunk now. I should go to sleep.

x

He does not seem so powerful now, does he?

I watch Potter as he packs up his supplies and puts his book into an old, overused bag. Someone must have stepped in, unable to look at that pathetic insect-like creature as it carried its belongings around the school in brittle emaciated hands. Would he even be able to lift the sword he killed Bellatrix with?

Where is the power? Alcohol must have more influence over me than I ever realised. Is this what 'temporary insanity' is like? I certainly hope so. It would not do to underestimate Potter, but for a man I my shoes – soon to be Potter's instructor in dabbling in the nastiest things wizards can hurl at each other – the consequences of overestimating him would be far worse and further reaching.

"Will you be missed if you do not attend dinner?" I ask him. He shrugs.

"I might. But it's not likely – I don't attend dinners often lately."

Yes, I can clearly see that. If there ever was an ounce of flesh on his bones it is not there now. He should have a real baby-sitter to make sure that he eats at least three times a day. I suppose that I am not exactly guiltless of self-starvation either, but I have yet to take it to such lengths as I see it in front of me.

"You will eat today."

For a moment he cannot suppress incredulity, but then his expression settles on something I have not seen before and cannot gauge the meaning of.

"I am not hungry."

I believe that. I hold the door open for him, not out of misplaced courtesy or something equally laughable, but to prod him to finally leave the classroom. I feel the wards fall in place as the lock clicks behind us, and lead him through the hallways to my office. My quarters are infinitely more appetising, but I will let Potter learn Cruciatus on myself before I allow him into a place so private for me. Even if I have to suffer the sight of pickled intestines as I eat.

"Strange as it may sound, Potter, I _do_ believe you." I miss his reaction, since he is walking behind me. "However, at some point you reach a state when you do not feel hunger anymore. I think you are past that point."

Once again, I hold the door open. He walks past me, staring blankly ahead, which more or less confirms that my accusation was accurate. He takes a place on the chair he started on in our last meeting, sets his bag on the floor next to his feet and gazes at the ink- and tea-stained surface of the desk.

I shut the door and fire-call the kitchen for two servings of the main course of whatever is going to be eaten in the Great Hall in two hours. It takes the house elves nary a moment to deliver the food, which turns out to be beef, rice and sauerkraut. Potter eyes it with distaste, but obediently picks up a fork and prods the vegetable. He at least tries to stomach something, although it is very obvious that the activity causes him no pleasure.

We eat – and by that I mean that _I_ eat while Potter rearranges the food around the plate with the objective of making it seem less – in silence that, behold, is not as tense as it could be. I actually manage to consume most of it, which is somewhat of a rare occurrence, despite the ominous presence of the stomach-unfriendly jars.

My final examination of Potter's plate, as they are being taken away, uncovers that he has, in fact, managed to dispose of the rice. I explain any feelings I might have about it away as satisfaction that my plan worked. With sufficient manipulation (since Potter simply disregards direct orders) he might grow strong enough to carry that sword of his again.

"The Dark Arts," I say when we are alone and isolated from the outside world by a Silencing Bubble, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible. Your defences," without any conscious decision, my voice becomes just a little louder, "must be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo."

Potter does not seem to be taken in at all. He stares at me appraisingly, then shakes his head, sighs and looks away.

"I know you love them," he says with a hint of exasperation. "You don't have to tell me that."

Can he not keep his mouth shut? _He_ wanted me to teach him – why must he aggravate me so?

"Potter-"

"I am not a sixth-year Hogwarts student starting N.E.W.T. level Defence course, Snape. I have asked you to teach me outside your official occupation. And I don't intend to stand against that many-headed monster of yours with just my wand. I need my own monster to pitch against it." He is a monster already. Why must it be required of _me_ to make him yet more frightening? He already cannot be controlled; it will become worse. He will become worse. I do not want to be the one to have created the new Dark Lord.

When he looks at me, though… he is so small. So pathetically underdeveloped and thin and naïve-looking but hurt and jaded underneath… is it those eyes?

"That's why I asked you," he tells me, as if he could not see how it vexes me. He exercises no caution in dealing with me.

"You want to learn Dark Arts?"

"I _need_ to learn Dark Arts."

I frown. It was not a trick question – it was a straight, clear one, and I expect an answer just as clear. Nevertheless, I understand the make-believe – even though I have never fallen prey to it myself.

"Ah, that is a very convenient excuse. I believe you did not answer my question Potter." I am the master of evasion – he has no hope to placate me with shrewdly put-together words.

"Is it wrong to want to?" he asks a moment later. There is trepidation in his voice; even though he is consciously aware that to a point he _can_ trust me, he has learnt not to trust anyone and must now battle those reflexes. The secret he lets out to me could be very damaging to him if made public… were I so inclined.

"That depends on the point of view. Your protégé was said to have enjoyed learning them, as were several of his former classmates."

"That is not an attractive prospect – the only one of that group that survives has been forced into custody of a Gryffindor his junior."

"Amazingly perceptive," I deadpan.

"I wouldn't say so," he brushes off the not quite compliment. _He_ is the one that made it happen, though, and I – however grudgingly – _do_ respect that. "I am well aware that Ministry frowns upon the knowledge of Dark Arts. I think _everyone_ is aware of that," the amusement I hear in his words is in direct conflict with his rather irritated expression. There is no friendship for the Ministry lost between the two of us.

"And yet you seek that knowledge…" Even though not phrased so, it is a question.

"I seek survival," he replies simply

There is no arguing with that statement. Seeing Potter in Slytherin colours is becoming familiar to me and, much as I dislike having him around me so often, if it is my influence, I shall continue my quest of converting him to a frame of mind that allows him to live up to the infamous title that was bestowed upon him.


	13. Old Harpies

A/N: Thanks for your feedback! Send more!  
Brynn 

x

Old harpies 

x

After taking a cursory look over Potter's schedule and comparing it to mine, I designate Thursday's third and fourth period and the last two periods on Friday for our semi-formal get-togethers. Granted, we could meet after dinner, or even during, but the beauty of the solution is that neither of us breaks school regulations _and_ we are unlikely to be disturbed by nosy associates wondering where he is gone.

That is why I stay in my classroom even though the fourth-years are all gone, busying myself with countering the acidic residuum of one of the botched potion-attempts before it eats through the cauldron, which is the reason why I miss Potter getting out from under his father's thousand times damned cloak of Hell. Actually, I do not notice him at all until I straighten and look around, wondering how many points I am going to take for lack of punctuality.

"It seems that the common courtesy of greeting is above you, Potter. Two points." I am being lenient, for I _might_ have been startled by his entrance, which is never a good idea while holding a vessel full of alkalia.

"Good afternoon," he says tonelessly, performing a duty. I set the counter agent back on its shelf and lock the cabinet.

"We shall relocate to the classroom two doors down, since I have no wish to have to rebuild my office after each of your 'lessons'. If you cannot quench your desire to blow out a wall, be so kind and try the one _away_ from my classroom." He does not react, simply follows me like a puppy, which, I strongly suspect, is his way of submitting to my guidance. I take a moment to ponder how the communication barrier between Potter and me gradually dissipates. "After we finish here, no matter how tired or sick you are feeling, you _will_ go to the Great Hall and you _will_ eat dinner. Am I understood?"

He snorts. I replay the sentence in my head and fail to grasp what is so ironic about it. Potter precedes me into the doomed room I have selected for the purpose of suffering destruction during these sessions. He must puzzle out my expression, for his first words after the entrance is sealed and wards and Silencing Charms added are: "You? Hardly. But the order is crystal clear."

I do appreciate the distinction. He seems to be in higher spirits than he was yesterday, which is less than comprehensible to me, unless he was actually looking forward to this meeting (and would that not be the height of folly?). Although Potter never displayed much common sense…

"Do sit down, Potter. I do not need you cracking your head open. I dare say it would be hard to explain."

Shadow passes over his face as he puts the pieces together. It seems that there is one subject that yet manages to instil true fear in him. How lucky I am to wield that information… How lucky indeed.

Potter sits down, on the floor rather than a half-dilapidated chair that I have gestured towards. I see the merit of the decision. With his body parts this close to the ground he is even less likely to come to an injury requiring professional medical help.

"Clear your mind," I say concisely and cast.

Potter does not have the time to do as commanded and I do not expect him to.

Therefore it shocks me when I find myself on a public road in a Muggle suburb, alone. If this was Potter's memory, he would be here, but there is no one in sight. Lines of eerily identical houses with empty windows on the left and right leave only two directions to go in – forth and back. The road itself is equally empty; there are no pedestrians and no automobiles, only stretching (seemingly) miles of dusty asphalt with a single white line in the middle. The sky is light grey with no Sun and no clouds.

The place looks thoroughly dead… and I am trapped in it.

I set out in the hope that I find a crack I could slip through. I have never encountered this manner of defence – most people construct walls to keep the attacker outside or, if they are forced to lie, present false memories as a front and hide the true ones in various locked vessels or rooms. This trap feels like it grew on its own. Why would Potter have a prison in his head?

It somewhat reminds me of Black's mind – the first place I appeared in when I Legilimised _him_ was an Azkaban cell. However, it promptly caved in, bombarding me with scraps of memories from before his incarceration, most of which I found alarmingly unflattering.

I notice that there is no wind here, not even a breeze. The air does not move at all. After a while of deliberating I attempt to Apparate.

I am successful. I appear in a new place, which, unfortunately is not a classroom in Hogwarts dungeons. Turning around to examine it, I emit a frustrated growl before I can stop myself – I am standing under a street lamp, on the sidewalk along the very same road. From this vantage I can read the number on the house. Four.

It is an interesting information – perhaps I must find one, or zero, to get out of here. I walk over to the next house to learn what number it is, only to be disappointed. Again four.

"It comes easier now."

I start and spin around, reflexively brandishing my wand. Potter stands there, dressed in the oversized rags he used to wear before he liberated Regulus's wardrobe. He gazes at his (empty) hands, hunched and looking as apologetic as he ever did.

"I am generally much calmer."

So he has done it consciously, after all. There is an evolvement I have not expected. It is impressive, but not sufficient. The Dark Lord's attacks come from within his mind, not without. He needs to learn control, not just tricks.

"You _will_ feel strong emotions – and that is what you have to learn to curb."

"Perhaps," he says ambiguously. It is quite possible that he truly does not feel strong emotions anymore. I would rather not think about it, but I have taken it upon myself to save Potter from the abyss of inhumanity he teeters on the edge of, and therefore it is my problem to deal with.

"You _do_ feel strong emotions, sometimes, do you not." I detect worry in my voice, which I did not wish to display. There is little harm done, though, since Potter has undoubtedly already guessed my motivations in this game.

"Sometimes?" he suggests, but his expression tells otherwise.

"Gods, Potter, this is not what I meant by 'clear your mind'." My exasperation does not faze him. He walks up to me and pushes me. Not having expected it, I fall backwards…

And land on my feet in the classroom, as though my conscious never took a trip into the recesses of Potter's head. Said boy is looking up at me from his seat on the ice-cold floor.

"Well, you never told me what you meant by it," he says in response to my annoyance. Truthfully, neither of us is to blame fully for this turn of events. "Anyway, I was quite surprised when I found I could do this. I suppose it's not exactly what you wanted, but it works alright."

I sigh. I am tired and bemused about what just happened here. So much, in fact, that I speak my mind, because adding another layer of deception to my already tangled perception of reality would serve nothing but furthering my confusion.

"Potter, you always had aptitude for Occlumency. Your previous failure was caused by our mutual unwillingness to co-operate."

He nods with recognition as the piece of a puzzle I have offered him falls into its place and makes the fact little clearer. I would not mind having a bit of clarity offered to myself.

"So, it's the same as with the Potions marks. You kept telling me I was a waste of space and time so long that I believed it," he complies, as if he has somehow read my wish.

"And, as you stated, a lack of suitable instructions." That is as close to an apology as he gets from me. I still do not feel very guilty about it; the situation was poorly handled by all three persons involved. "I will provide better ones this time, and I expect you to practise and master the techniques I will teach to you."

"I understand the need for Occlumency in conjunction with me learning Dark Arts… But if no one but Voldemort can break into my head, you can start teaching me already, can't you?"

I wait until the shudder subsides, clenching my teeth so that I do not curse him. When I get a grip of myself and glare at him, there is not a vestige of contrition in his expression. It is an aggravating weakness on my part. Were it the other way around, I would not have understanding for it either… which does not mean that I should tolerate it. The trouble is that I have no idea whatsoever how to retaliate, since I can hardly detract points for naming the Dark Lord. Besides, I really, _really_ want to overcome this weakness. What better way is there than becoming accustomed to hearing the accursed word?

Apart from this dilemma he raises a valid point, even though after my out-of-mind experience I do not feel capable of more than assigning him some reading and warning him to keep it as obscured as possible. Newspaper is not enough to stop determined eyes.

x

On the next Friday, I am woken up by insistent knocking on the door to my quarters. With empathy equalling to the early morning visitor's, I first use the bathroom, then dress, and _then_ go to open the door.

By that time, Minerva looks positively furious. She makes a move to enter my quarters, but I stand in her way.

"Good morning to you too, Minerva. What may I thank for your visit at such a charming time?" My voice is heavy with sleep and sarcasm but, irate as she is, the harpy would not be deterred by my tone.

"Before I spent _charming_ ten minutes on your threshold, Severus, I came directly from the Gryffindor Tower. Can you explain why did I find one of _your_ students in _my_ common room at six in the morning?"

And this could not wait for another hour? That she is old and does not need more than four hours of sleep a night does not mean it applies to everyone.

"I don't know. What are _you_ doing in _my_ quarters at… half past six?"

She sputters, looking as though she might suffer a cardiac arrest right where she stands. And it would be her own fault, too – what kind of idiot bothers me so early in the morning? Beside the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, and a few suicidal neanderthalers…

"Severus Snape! If you found a Gryffindor in a post-party drunken haze in the middle of your dormitories, you would storm in my quarters blasting the doors open, so do not think to preach to me!"

Which might be the truth, but remains hypothetical until it happens, as opposed to the reality of me being awoken an hour before I wished to be in any state even remotely resembling consciousness.

"I am listening to you now, Minerva. Do share your woes so that I may return to my quarters and compose myself before I am overrun by the first dose of the brats." I might want to curb down my tongue. It is perfectly well for me to think sophisticated, but in a conversation with a Gryffindor before seven in the morning it only leads to unnecessary misunderstandings. Not to mention Minerva's aversion to sarcasm.

"You remember that I am still your elder, young man," she says strictly in the same tone she uses on errant eleven-year-old Slytherins. Somehow she misses the fact that our age difference is unlikely to change… without radical usage of time-turners and/or ageing spells and/or potions. "Either way, Draco Malfoy is currently residing within the hospital wing. I expect you to clear this-"

"That is outside my authority, Minerva," I cut her off before she finishes her rant and stomps off, on the (very probable) chance that she would not let me speak.

"You are his Head of House, Severus! In the absence of his legal guardian that responsibility – and authority – is yours!" As if I was new at this job. Merlin knows I have used this authority more often than Minerva in her entire carrier. Gryffindors, while notorious trouble-makers, are far less likely to break _laws_ then Slytherins.

"You have just said it. In the _absence_ of the legal guardian. Which is not this case. And, before you ask, _I_ am not Lord Malfoy's legal guardian. I suggest you take the topic up with _him_."

Under different circumstances I might have appreciated seeing Minerva McGonagall gob-smacked, however, currently I am too irritated with her continued presence on my doorstep.

"I thought it was you… I mean… who else…"

"You were not informed?" I ask with genuine surprise. Strange. I would have thought the Headmaster would have told her everything… unless the Headmaster does not know either… which raises the question of _why_ does he not know, and _why_ did he not inquire about it.

He likely assumed the same as Minerva, conveniently disregarding that Draco and I have not had a civil encounter since before his parents died. I simply do not have the patience to deal with a mentally disturbed spoilt recalcitrant teenager who fancies himself hating me.

"It is not my place to inform you if they have neglected to do so," I tell her simply, shut the door into her face and ignore any further knocking, no matter how insistent. A minute later she gives up and leaves. I imagine I am in disfavour.

x

Minerva glares at me all through breakfast. I notice that Draco is present, which means that there was little to her tales of alcohol poisoning, and the rambunctiousness of the supposed Gryffindor party was greatly embellished. I have born witness to many such aftermaths and know well that Pomfrey would not have let him out of the hospital wing if he showed any signs of inebriation.

"The Gryffindors don't look very tired, do they?" Viridian remarks casually from the seat next to mine, eyes fixed on the piece of toast he generously lathers with butter. It is an inane observation, without context. However, since he probably heard Minerva's accusations, it seems like more defence for Potter. I would be surprised if the Boy Who Lived actually did drink – not for the reason why it would surprise the masses, but, quite opposite, because I know him far better than I should. He has many reasons to seek alcohol-induced obliviation… but he _would_ not.

"Indeed," I reply ambiguously. It is not my place to defend Potter. He can do that all quite well on his own, and it is far safer for both of us _and_ our truce if everyone thinks that we still hate each other with only marginally lesser degree of viciousness in comparison to the years past.

"I heard Minerva complaining that they were getting rowdy with some Slytherins."

"_Some Slytherins_?" I echo. So far I have only heard of a _single_ Slytherin, who was sober in the morning, which means that he could not have had more than two glasses of wine or something equally harmless. By my standards that does not even constitute intoxication.

"Namely Draco Malfoy. Poppy cleared him just before breakfast – said that there was no earthly reason to keep him in the hospital wing." Which confirms my deductions. "Personally, I believe that Minerva just over-reacted after seeing a snake in her sacred dorms."

I can see that, especially when the situation is combined with the intense dislike Minerva has felt for the boy ever since the infamous imaginary dragon incident. It is not unwarranted, nevertheless, it is very peculiar when I behave more benevolently than the noble and chivalrous example of all that is Gryffindor does.

"There are no school regulations against visiting their dormitories," I state factually. Viridian snorts.

"Indeed. The curfew, however, is clearly stated, and Mr Malfoy very obviously broke it."

"Which is a minor and a very frequent offence, and warrants ten to twenty points subtracted and a detention on the discretion of the teacher."

Viridian laughs, easily seeing through my feigned unconcern about the matter. He must have been informed of my… _attachment_ (for lack of a better term) to Draco. Might have been Minerva gloating when she found that he did not get into N.E.W.T. Potions class.

"I quite like young Mr Malfoy," Viridian prattles on. "I would hate to see him unjustly prosecuted."

That is a first. The only teachers to take a liking to Draco so far were myself and Dolores Umbridge, whom I, for reasons comprehensible, do not count.

"I am glad you say that, Vindictus," I tell him uncharacteristically cheerfully. He grows alert, straightening his back and tightening his mouth. "I am quite content that you can handle any _injustice_ Minerva on a war-path might be prone to commit. It is simply _wonderful_ to be able to rely on someone to defend the students from the _ridiculous_ House-feud."

It is a pity Potter did not get to see this performance. I have a feeling he would have enjoyed it.

x

"Severus! You can't mean this honestly!"

This is exactly why I never rely on luck. Everything with the smallest possibility of blowing up into my face does so. What was the likelihood of being accosted by Minerva McGonagall during the thirty seconds I needed to move from my classroom to the one I would meet Potter in?

Apparently, quite high, since the wretched woman has been waiting for the fourth-years to disband and for myself to leave the classroom. The entire assault must have been planned – I find it unlikely that she would not have more classes today. The effort she expedited on this meeting makes me weary; it is apparent that she wants something I shall be unwilling to grant.

"Minerva, good afternoon!" I say tonelessly. A lagging-behind trinity of fourteen-year-old Slytherins muffle their sniggers as they hurry away before they are caught in the crossfire.

"Don't play coy with me, boy!" I face her, wearing a carefully neutral expression. "You have done nothing about Malfoy-"

"I have told you in the morning, Minerva. There _is_ nothing I can do."

"There never was, was there. You are so ecstatic to persecute the students… unless they wear green and silver. Butter wouldn't melt in the mouths of those hellish heathen of yours!"

I wonder what she did about the Gryffindors she suspects of celebrating so hard. So far the only evidence of a party that I have heard of was Draco's presence in the Tower… which is, frankly, too feeble to construct such a far-fetched scheme on.

"And Malfoy is the worst of them all!" Minerva continues raving. Have I not known her for decades and were she not usually extremely controlled, I would (for purely academic reasons, of course), count how long it would take until she starts frothing at the mouth. She has nothing on Bellatrix's anger… though I consider that a _good_ thing. "He does anything he likes, never disciplined, never even berated for all the foul things he pulled throughout the years!"

"He lost his parents recently. Do you not consider it a punishment?" I ask coldly. It is interesting how even the continuous antagonism from the boy fails to keep me from having a soft spot for him. It must be tied to the potential I saw in him… he could have… _still_ could be a memorable Potions Master.

"He's better off without those monsters-" She rapidly falls silent, covering her mouth with her hand. We stare at each other; I retain my cool mask of indifference while Minerva looks thunderstruck, pale. Apparently she has managed to offend her own delicate sensibilities.

"Malfoy must be appropriately disciplined," she states resolutely in the end. I suppress a sigh – it is as though she has not listened to me at all.

"I have told you, Minerva – this is out of my jurisdiction. Take it up with Mr Malfoy's legal guardian!"

She opens her mouth to retort, but never gets the chance, preceded by a happy, nigh sing-song voice sounding from the nearest junction, getting on my nerves uniquely after only one sentence.

"Professor! I've been looking for you…"

Exasperating as he is, I realise I am glad to see Potter. He is preferable to continuing this inane conversation with the hag about her bigoted take on chivalry and justice.

Minerva growls quietly, though not quietly enough to conceal the sound from either myself or the boy, who steadfastly ignores it and keeps on smiling that big, radiant, patently fake grin. She falls for it – hook, line and sinker.

"How can I help you, Mr Potter?" she asks crisply, falling into her role of a strict and responsible Head of House, instead of a harpy she has been turning into for the last few minutes.

Potter glances at her, _very_ contrite.

"Er… I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall, but I meant Professor Snape."

"What do you want, Potter?" I bark. The boy's brows furrow, until he remembers that this is all but an elaborate game.

"I sought Draco's council and he advised me to speak to you," he says simply. It was not exactly wise to mention Draco in front of Minerva right now, as evidenced by the disappearing lips and continued pallor of her cheeks, nevertheless, it was better than if he said that he was coming for his regular lesson in Dark Arts.

I attempt damage control with a sneer and my typical derisive tone.

"Professor McGonagall is still your Head of House, Potter-"

"And you are still a Slytherin," he retorts with narrowed eyes, "with all the sly cunning intelligence to go with that label." The lack of 'sir' in that sentence resonates; I hope she does not notice. Despite the impudence, I would so hate to deduct points for that particular statement.

"As you so foolishly wish then, Potter," I pretend to concede. Anything that gets me into relative safety. Potter does not seem to understand what the debate was about and I definitely do not envy him the collision that awaits him in the near future. Once the shrew finds that _he_ is Draco's legal guardian… to use Potter's words (or some of his friend's), it is not going to be pretty.

"Excuse us, Minerva," I say with perfect gentlemanly manners, which always seems to throw her off. I have learnt that particular trick – keeping the nonchalance up in any situation – in Death Eater meetings, but it comes in handy in 'real life', too. "It appears that the number of points Potter loses in Potions was deemed unsatisfactory by young Lord Malfoy. I shall see to that matter and make sure that the standing of the Gryffindor House drops accordingly."

I nod to her and set out down the hall in a rapid pace, more feeling than hearing Potter fall in step behind me. We manage to escape before the woman realises what just happened.

As soon as the Silencing Charms are set, Potter starts chuckling.

"The last time I saw McGonagall looking like that, Ron had just dropped a club on a troll's head."

"_Professor_ McGonagall, Potter. Five points."

I remember the incident he has mentioned only vaguely. I was too torn between suspicions of Quirrel, pain from my leg, hatred for Potter and indignation at Dumbledore to think straight. In far less biased hindsight, it was an admirable feat from two first-years (Granger did nothing but cower, if I remember correctly) to strike down a mountain troll. They knew no hexes, no curses, Weasley had heard of trolls only from fairy-tales and Potter not at all… And they all survived, thanks to radiant idyss and whimsy of fate.

Potter gives me a look of profound disappointment. He quickly averts his yes, pretending that it did not happen, and I do not understand. For some stupid damned irrational reason it bothers me.

"Ah," he says with a small, bitter smile, once again looking straight at me, "let me know when you stop being a Professor and become Severus Snape."

Ah, indeed. Now I am beginning to comprehend the problem. The interaction between us is not describable as teacher and student anymore, but my falling back on my privileges dampens any attempts on causality and mutual trust of us as individuals. I do not want that kind of rapport with Potter, but I do not see how it is avoidable. Maybe I could act like… hardly. Despite what my students think of me, I detest pointless cruelty. Pretending to care about Potter is like kicking an abused puppy.

"What exact difference do you see between those two?"

"The first one is-" He cuts himself off, probably censuring an insult. "-a teacher." How… unexpected. My shoulders shake slightly, the only indication of grim amusement. How diplomatic he is learning to be, for my sake. He thinks of my usual teacher persona, the one to have belittled (and at times even consciously sabotaged) him during the past five years… and he sums it up as a 'teacher'. "The second one is the bastard who tries to make me cry so that I won't kill myself in a fit of ill-aimed rage."

This time my laughter erupts true, for the irony is unfathomable. All the diplomacy gone, for the sake of a deadpan sketch of the mock-friendly relation we have established.

"Such eloquence, Mr Potter," I manage to say between chuckles. "And here I thought the Gryffindors were not allowed to learn big words, lest they be shunned by their House."

He shrugs and continues with the same dry humour: "Well, we learnt to tolerate Hermione. Next to her vocabulary, mine is hardly outstanding."

Still unable to force the corners of my mouth down, I reply, completely truthfully: "It does exceed expectations at times, though."

He keeps the blank expression, but only just.

"You humble me, sir. I thought it was acceptable at best."

I shake my head, briefly remembering the exchange of barbs we had after the first Order meeting he had infiltrated. There is an embittered yet still human mind behind that diamond-hard skull, hidden from people simply because they either would not understand or would not appreciate the sarcasm, especially coming from the Boy Who Lived.

"You deserve higher than that for lauding Slytherin qualities in front of the Gryffindor Head of House," I acknowledge, chuckling again as I briefly recall Minerva's face.

"That is who we Gryffindors are: bravery is required." His voice is oddly quiet as he says that. His eyes shine, but their focus is somewhere two steps behind the wall opposite the spot he chose to sit on. It seems that 'bravery' is not a quality he holds in such a high respect anymore. I am not unduly shocked by that – after all, what was it but bravery (and stupidity) that killed Diggory and Black and _almost_ fordid five of his closest friends last spring?

In hindsight I realise what had just passed between Potter and me. I have not exchanged 'friendly' banter with anyone in sixteen years, so it takes me too long to recognise it. There were no insults, no barbs, only light humour. A simple dialogue of two people capable of understanding irony and appreciative of intellectual amusement… Judging by the tiny (_repulsive_!) burst of giddiness I feel, I have probably missed it.


	14. Different Creature

A/N: Ahoj. Here is a new chapter for all my readers (since, according to my stats, Pantogogue is _reasonably_ well-liked), but especially for the kind and much appreciated reviewers. Thanks, people. 

Brynn

x Different Creature 

x

The lesson is worrisome, in that Potter picks up Dark spells much faster than he should be able to. Some he can cast simply by pronouncing the incantation, without any theory or background on them. It makes me wonder if he cannot tap into the Dark Lord's power through that scar of his… which is worrisome on a whole new level.

He is apparently aware of it and torn between happiness that he has this advantage and disgust with himself due to its discreditable character. Open-minded as he is, there are still scruples left over from five years of conditioning. Dumbledore had him raised to be the perfect tragic hero but, somehow, against all odds, what Potter became is a completely different sort of creature.

Without an uttered word yet unequivocally, we consider today's session finished. Potter perches on a dilapidated student's desk as far away from me as possible within the room, conjures a handful of tiny glittering objects and levitates them in the air around himself. They spin, some lazily, some with high velocity. He aims his wand at one and casts the Bursting Curse (a minor Dark curse I taught him today) with impeccable aim. The glittering thing blows up into a flower of sparks and vicious miniature shards, so tiny that they cannot be seen with human eye and only the refraction shows where they physically are.

I catch myself staring. I should not have neglected to inform him that he could not hold an active charm while casting these curses… Sometimes I have the feeling that he manages these impossibilities just to spite me.

"I want to drop out of Defence," he says suddenly. Potter truly saves words nowadays. He certainly does not blabber pointlessly. "Viridian is a great teacher… It's a pity that he didn't turn up five years ago."

Have I not thought the exact same thing when I learnt that he was going to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts this year? Nevertheless, it would probably send the entire wizarding population of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland into panic if it was leaked that the Boy Saviour does not attend N.E.W.T. DADA.

"He puts stress on practice," I note neutrally. Viridian is indeed a great teacher as long as you are a child, but he has a mind of a politician, which makes him a rather dangerous personality if he considers you an equal.

"Yeah," Potter deigns to agree with me, blasting three of his sputniks in a rapid succession. "Almost the opposite of Umbridge. He really knows what he's doing – tailors his classes to fit the level of the students and stuff… It's a lot like the DA, actually."

"Ah. Your little club." If the staff had not known which students were involved, all they needed to do was take a look at the final exams last year. _Almost_ everyone with Exceeds Expectations and higher in Defence was a member.

Potter conjures a mirror hovering in front of himself and explodes a glittering ball _behind_ himself. I gulp reflexively.

"Do not mock it, sir." Right now I see a good reason to comply to this request. Potter's eye-to-hand co-ordination is unparalleled. "The members are easily discernible among their peers by the level of proficiency in duelling."

"Why then do you wish to drop the class?"

Potter leans back, propped on his arms, hands tightening around the edge of the desk.

"I taught it to seventh-years last year, Professor. I have no challenge in that class save the teacher himself, who does not have the time for me individually. My being there is pointless."

I imagine that is true, but, even though he is the one most of us expect to do away with the Dark Lord, _no one_ has the time to prepare him for it.

Except me – I realise with a mild surprise. Why have I not thought of this facet before? _I_ am saving the world with _my philanthropy_… I suppress the hysterical chuckle that bubbles up from my insides and put on a professional face.

"It is your best class, Potter. Dropping it would be folly-"

"It won't matter anyway." He shifts his centre of gravity so that he leans only on one hand, while he waves the other in a gesture of dismissal. "I'm going to die before I graduate."

"That's bullshit!" I exclaim before I can stop myself. His matter of fact announcement of the closeness of his death simply got the better of me. I do not want to waste my afternoons training a walking corpse. There is a long while of silence when I concentrate on the pattern on the wall and fight to will my sneer away under the weight of Potter's gaze boring into the back of my head. "What are you gaping at?" I bark, snidely but lacking the viciousness that should have been there.

"I don't think I've ever heard you curse while you were sober," he says quietly. Just like that my previous mood comes back. He has a morbid sense of humour and an equally morbid sense of earnestness.

"That statement was very wrong, Potter, and I shall thank you not to repeat it," I say, resigned.

"I know, shouldn't have seen you drunk… but it makes you a real person, Professor, so it's alright with me. You've seen me kill, and isn't that a lot worse?" Indeed, how could I have forgotten? We are just two ordinary humans, only I drink myself into stupor once in a while and he kills people. Ironically enough, in the current political atmosphere it would not be so alarming, were he not sixteen.

"Anyway, why shouldn't I drop DADA?"

Why should he not? He is bored in the class, learns nothing and there are many more worthwhile activities he could devote that time to. On the other hand, I do not expect Albus Dumbledore to cave in to logic and sense.

"Apply for independent study." That sounds to me like the optimal solution. "The Headmaster will allow it to _you_. You will have a chance to spend as much time in the library as you can stomach and maybe even receive a pass to the Restricted Section."

"That _is_ an idea…" he agrees, seemingly entranced with it. He worries his lower lip for a while, bethinking it from different angles. "Still, are you going to teach me that, too? I won't learn advanced duelling by myself."

That is certainly true. I wish there was a way to get out of this arrangement, but Dumbledore keeps refusing the boy and Flitwick does not deal with Dark Arts. Viridian could, perhaps, but he is not a member of the Order (yet) and definitely not interested in giving special tutoring to the Boy Who Lived.

Potter meets my eyes expectantly. He knows that his request is a sensible one, but also that (while I learned to tolerate his presence) I still dislike him greatly. I do. I really, really… do… Bloody Hell. This was not supposed to happen. He is just the Saviour. That is the only reason I am doing this… When even I cannot believe it anymore, I do have a problem.

I have _almost_ managed to forget the night in the Headquarters when I understood him so well. He was too close; I felt too vulnerable to him, so I attempted to push it out of my mind. But I am going to suffer for it either way and I do not want to see the wizarding world fall to the Dark Lord.

"I promised that I would make you capable of taking care of yourself, Potter. Now get out. I shall let you know when you are to come, aside from our evening sessions."

He slides down from the desk and falls lightly on the balls of his feet, his robe floating behind him.

"Thank you." He attempts a smile, but it is feeble.

"Get out…" I bark at him and depart, making a beeline for my bar. Potter is going to drive me insane.

x

When in the beginning of October Potter's cheekbones are not jutting out quite so alarmingly, I feel it is time to start with fire spells. It is a delicate and dangerous branch, but one based on the simplest concepts. I did not start with it because it requires endurance and I did not trust an anorexic and dropping-down-from-exhaustion Potter to not set the school on fire.

He looks healthier now, although I am quite aware of the fact that he hides the worst under an elementary Illusion. Studying him as he leans over a hanukiah in concentration, it occurs to me that he does not remind me of James Potter anymore. Not at all. He is smaller, thinner, with different bone-structure, different body-language and mimic, different manners and way of speaking, vocabulary, emotional range, morals… too much to name, truly.

The flames jump from wick to wick, leap over each other and melt together in the mid-air, flick out or spring from nothing, creating a deranged dance. It seems that Potter has a perfect control over them already, after a mere half hour. His progress is so rapid that I spend sleepless nights imagining him as the new Dark Lord.

He mumbles something while pointing his wand at his palm and I barely hold back a yell as he lets the drops of fire jump over to his hand. I groan and throw my head back, forgetting that there is a stone wall in its way.

"Professor?" he asks, _concerned_.

I shake my head (which makes me slightly dizzy) and pinch the bridge of my nose. When I look up at him, I find him standing motionless, watching me, holding his forearm vertically. Each of the five fingers is topped with a little drop of hot plasma, without any believable reason for it to be there. He has folded his sleeves up before he attempted the experiment, and I think that sight shows exactly why he has no problems with fire spells.

Most wizards that start with this section of Dark Arts have great respect for fire, even fear it. Potter's forearms are marked with old scars of burns. He knows better than most what the touch of fire and heat feels like, and as a familiar experience it does not seem so terrifying to him.

"Why did you not tell the Headmaster what they were like?" I ask, glaring at the thin arch of paler skin extending from his wrist almost to his elbow. He follows the line on my sight and, as soon as he understands the question, he frowns. I suspect he is going to clam up, or become defensive, which would be a normal reaction for an abused child.

"What makes you think I didn't tell?" he asks evenly.

I find myself eternally thankful to any potentially existing deity that the abuse was sporadic and nowhere near as serious as it could have been. It is no laughable matter and I am certain a great part of Potter's loose screws comes from the treatment he received at his relatives' hands, but at least he can cope with it.

"It appears that I am idealistic enough to believe that had he known, he would not have left you in their care."

He shrugs, lifting his left hand as well and letting the flames jump between all ten of his fingers. In the perpetual dusk of the dungeons it looks… ethereal.

"I didn't bother him with details. Told him the gist of it – they hate me, they don't want me there, I go hungry for longer periods of time as punishment for crimes that weren't mine in the first place. Got a proverbial pat on the head and assurance that it wasn't as bad as I imagined. Guess he thought I was being… _a normal teenager_. As if I ever was normal."

"Do not compliment yourself, Potter. That is deplorable," I growl, putting him down with perhaps unnecessary harshness, but I need to remind myself who exactly this boy is. It would not do to forget due to him playing with fire.

"That isn't a compliment," he shakes off my acerbity with ease born from extensive practice. "It's a fact. Look, I got it hammered into my head for ten years that I wasn't normal; you can't just tell me I am and expect me to believe it." He gives me a significant look. "Especially since you're the only one who says it and even you don't act on it."

"I never treated you as anything but normal!" I retort, more offended than I would be if it was not truth. I never treated him as normal. And now I cannot even attempt it.

"Are you lying right now, or do you really believe this drivel?" Great Merlin, _must_ he be so obstinate?

"Ten po-"

"No," he says resolutely, and I close my mouth and, after a moment of thought, my eyes, too. We have had this conversation before, but it is hard for me to stop acting like a teacher when that (and a Death Eater spy) is all I have been for years. It has implanted itself into my personality and I very much doubt that even Potter would be able to thaw it out with all his logical reasoning and self-destructive hard-headedness. "We don't have this conversation as a teacher and his student. We _could_ revert back to that – but then you can't expect me to pour my heart out to you."

I do not have to like it, but he is right. I can force him to eat, give him private tutoring, ask him personal questions about his childhood and witness his breakdowns… but only if I (at least temporarily) let go of the authority of a Hogwarts Professor.

x

No matter how much I dislike trips to the Headmaster's office, this is summons I cannot ignore. I stride in with my usual crispness, perfectly unconcerned about Minerva's disgruntled mutters.

"Severus. Wonderful. It seems that we are all here," Dumbledore twinkles at us – which group, I observe, consists of the four Heads of Houses – and I step as far into the shadow in the corner as it is possible. The warm light of the torches pervades it, naturally, but at least my eyes are not bothered by it, and the deeper shadows cast by my curtain of hair make it harder to estimate my facial expression.

"We have a very interesting case on our hands, ladies and gentlemen."

I blink. This is an unusual beginning, and I am not quite sure what to expect. I hazard a guess that it has something to do with my illustrious pseudo-protégé.

"On Minerva's insistence," he nods to the woman in recognition, "I have investigated the happenings of the night from nineteenth to twentieth of September, when Draco Malfoy was found to have remained in the Gryffindor common room."

Minerva adopts a haughty air, while Filius and Pomona fidget with curiosity.

"So, which was it?" Pomona asks when Dumbledore insists on his dramatic pause.

"Alas, neither of us was correct in our assumptions," he says brightly, reaching into his upper drawer and recovering a lemon drop, which he pops into his mouth and – judging by the suspicious movements of his beard – sucks on. "There was no party in Gryffindor Tower that night, and no traces of alcohol or any other toxic substance were found."

Minerva huffs and crosses her hands in front of her chest, put-off by being wrong for once. Gryffindors are sore losers, and their women twice so. This particular Gryffindor woman, though, has a not so nice habit of assuming that what she thinks she knows is indubitably right, and if someone tries to suggest something else they are either wrong or lying.

"To your theory, Filius, Draco was invited into the Tower, and he neither had played nor intended to play any pranks on the students. Finally, Pomona, there is not a romance blooming between young Mr Malfoy and either of the Gryffindors, much less Miss Granger. They are, apparently, on civil, or even friendly, terms, but that is not such a great surprise. After all, they did spend a month living in the same house."

I find it amusing that they convened and constructed three elaborate theories, instead of asking Draco or myself. I do not feel slighted by being exempt of their meeting, rather glad that I did not have to endure it. Now I can stand aside at mentally laugh at them as they put the pieces together.

"It appears that Severus was candid in his response to you, Minerva. He truly does not have the authority to prosecute Mr Malfoy, as his legal guardian is indeed present in the castle. Although I am not aware of a precedent, it appears that there is nothing we can do to contest this development either, as the two _students_ in question performed a ritual which is protected by ancient laws."

"A student?!"

Dumbledore, as the perfect picture of benevolent omniscience gives the seated trinity a benign smile.

"A student," he repeats.

"Who?" Minerva growls. All signs point to Gryffindor, and she is many things but stupid. Were she somewhat smarter, or at least less blind, she would not have needed to ask. It is quite obvious.

"Harry Potter."

Minerva slumps in the armchair, and for a moment I think she has fainted, but then she moans and reaches up to rub her temples. Pomona sighs, disappointed that there was not going to be a terribly romantic Shakespearean love affair happening any time soon. Filius… laughs. It is a quiet sound, muffled by his hands, and I fully understand the sentiment. Minerva glares at him, but it only sets him off again.

"You knew!" she yells, turning to me. I raise an eyebrow. "You… you…"

"Severus," Dumbledore cuts her off, "why did you not inform us if you knew of this?"

I am walking on a thin ice right now. I do have a well of complaints against the Headmaster, but I cannot afford to have him angry at me.

"I _suspected_, Headmaster," I reply calmly. "The students do not tend to share their secrets with me." It _must_ have something to do with my personality. "Incidentally, I do not have the right to demand that Draco Malfoy informs me of who is his custodian. I am not his kin, and I strongly suspect that there was no mention of me in his parents' will. It is, frankly, none of my business." It is not completely truthful, but Dumbledore knows that the only one who may demand that personal details of the students be disclosed to him is the Headmaster or, in his absence, the Deputy. It is not my problem that they did not remember up until now that there was a recently orphaned student among my sixth-years.

"Harry cannot be anybody's guardian," Minerva claims fiercely. "He is underage!"

"Alas, it is old and binding magic they used, dependant most likely on magical power and control of the caster, which, as we know, Harry has in abundance. There was never a requirement of him being a certain age…"

"Albus, you cannot allow this!"

"I have no choice," the Headmaster replies sagely and interlaces his fingers.

"How…" Filius pipes up, and everyone in the room turns to him. He wriggles, but speaks again, with more force this time. "They were in Headquarters all of August, not allowed outside, right…" He waits until Dumbledore nods, and then continues: "Who bought them the books, then? And the uniforms? Everything else they could borrow, but…"

One of the questions I have pondered, but have not found the answer to yet, except that Potter's robes used to be Regulus's. It is a cruel, heart-stabbing coincidence, but when I do not think of it, they look just like any other uniform robes.

"Molly Weasley must have-"

"Molly only bought supplies for Ronald and Ginevra," Pomona cuts in. "I have met her in Flourish and Blotts and we chatted for a while. She thought Remus would take care of Harry's things – they are very close…"

"Remus was assigned elsewhere," Dumbledore refutes the possibility. "How about Nymphadora? She took a liking to Harry…"

Grasping on straws now, is he, the 'omniscient' warlock. He forgot the child, plain and simple. They all did. The only time they remembered that he existed was when they denied him access to Order meetings. It is almost like the Muggle saying 'Out of sight – out of mind', except that they keep thinking of the Boy Who Lived every time the topic of the Dark Lord comes up.

It is just Harry Potter that remains forgotten.

"Nymphadora took a greater liking to Lupin," I say snidely, angry at how the Order treats its Golden Child and angry at how I cannot stop it bothering me. "I doubt she had time for more than a quick meal and a shower when she managed to pry herself out of his bed."

Minerva and Pomona gasp; Filius catches himself on the arm-rest to prevent himself from falling off the chair. Dumbledore looks at me with disappointment that I find incredibly hypocritical at the moment.

"That is crass, Severus!" the venerated Head of the Gryffindor House berates me. I think their treatment of Potter and Draco is crass. Their bigotry and snobbery and condescending and ignorance is crass. For damned long years of this purgatory I stood on their side and did their bidding, but today I see why I, ultimately, do not _want_ to be a Light wizard.

"I agree," I reply smoothly. Neither of them understand what I insinuate.

"I will thank you not to express yourself like that in my presence, young man!" Minerva apparently thinks that she can treat me like a student still. Far be it from me to disabuse her of that notion now – the more amusing the scene is going to be when the reality catches up.

"I am afraid that this discussion is progressing in a direction we do not wish to pursue," the Headmaster intervenes before the old feline can spit more acid in my direction. "Severus, I expect you to report any suspicions such as this you might have in the future…" I nod to him, then to my sitting colleagues, and stride to the exit, glad to leave.

"And Severus!" I halt and look over my shoulder at the old coot. I knew it was too easy. He gives me his patented patronising look over the frames of his spectacles. "Do try to curb your tongue, my boy, especially in the presence of ladies."

x

I do not have to do much of anything, only keep watch. Potter holds a fire-ball in each of his hands, controlling them with the help of a wand holster (which he acquired recently, and I still have no idea where from). He reduces the size of the spheres and for a moment keeps them in one palm, creating a third one, and then he juggles them with appalling ease. He tries to add a fourth one, but his lack of practice makes him misjudge the throw and one of the balls falls. It splats on the floor, going out with a brief tall blue flame.

He laughs, quietly, and I turn around to face a vacant corner, because I cannot watch. People generally think me a cold man. That is not truth at all – I do care _reasonably_ much about _reasonable_ things. However, one day, suddenly, though not at all unexpected, the Harry Potter disruption walked into my calm and collected life. A mere look at him could make me – one of the most controlled men I know – fly into hot rage. And these days…

A light brush of a hand alerts me to his proximity, and momentarily I am captivated by his eyes. They are one of the three _reasonably_ attractive features he has. It is almost sad how the potential beauty he could have become was spoilt by harsh life and cruel people. Why could he not have been meant to be ugly from the beginning? Seeing all that possibilities… _wasted_… it angers me. But he does not care.

He never seems to care.

"I did not mean to offend you," he says quietly, puzzled by why I am frowning at him. Not his fault. This once.

I pull aside the bangs he purposefully keeps falling into his face (much like my curtain of hair) as a line of defence, but there is not more of him underneath. It is just the same Potter, just the same weariness and obstinacy and resolve hardened with blood. He is surprisingly sane.

I pity him, because he really has no one around himself that wants anything of him. Draco, at least, is flocked by young people who admire his apparel or his attitude or the power he wields… for Potter it is just a crowd of star-struck screeching fans searching for a two-dimensional Boy Who Lived, who is in fact nothing more than a few pictures and a collection of badly-written gossip articles.

And I really, _really_ should not care.


	15. Reasonable Fool

A/N: Wow! The readers' response to last chapter preceded all my expectations… thank you! The simple fact that most of what I am trying to convey in my writing is received and understood makes me indescribably happy… 

Brynn

x Reasonable Fool 

x

The dinner on the eleventh of October is marked by the arrival of a special evening edition of the Daily Prophet, featuring a _very appetising_ photograph of what used to be the lobby of the Flyte and Barker Manufactory on the front page. The picture indicates the presence of vampires at the site – the detail of the ripped jugular of one of the corpses looks very persuasive.

Older present-minded students snatch or Summon the papers from the younger ones before they get a good look, but most of them are not fast enough. A small group runs through the doors to the Entrance Hall, hurrying to the nearest bathroom. I ostentatiously put a meatball into my mouth, casually glancing over the colourful cover. Viridian glares at me, looking green around the edges.

Pomfrey, Pomona and Minerva try and control the students, disinterested in the meal already as it were. I take a gulp of water and watch the mayhem subside as the three women send the brats off to their respective common rooms or, if their poor stomachs are too weak, to the hospital wing. Pomfrey walks off with that group – consisting mostly of little girls and Hufflepuffs, but I notice that Chang is among them (she sticks out from the crowd, almost two feet taller than the little children huddling around her).

"Severus, how can you…" Viridian has to look away from me. It is not my fault that today's menu includes spaghetti, and neither is it my fault that the ketchup is red. Besides, I am not the only one unhindered in my meal by the evidence of bloodshed. Potter and Draco continue eating and conversing, observed by Granger and two Weasleys, who are, thankfully, not as callous.

"May I have your attention."

I glance sideways at the Headmaster, who has arisen to give a proclamation, and return to emptying my plate, ignoring the glares and gapes my activity attracts.

"Please, return to your dormitories. There will be house elves available to provide you with drinks and food, should you regain your appetite."

After the initial panic subsides, the students are more or less behaved in their departure from the Great Hall, aware that there is no imminent danger threatening them. The hysterical few that have lost relatives in the attack have gone with Pomfrey in the beginning.

x

There are only two truly private rooms within the Hogwarts castle. One of them is the Chamber of Secrets, which I, naturally, cannot access. The second is where I – _coincidentally_ – meet with Potter a mere hour after I last saw him.

I do not know what lead me to think that he would be here, but I know that it was my curiosity about his reaction and a worry that he might decide to sneak out of the castle to get some fresh revenge while the faculty and other students sleep. On the first account – Potter's location – I was right, on the second not.

"Thank you, Udri," I hear Potter's voice after I close the door behind myself. He trusts me more than I thought he does if he has allowed me this far. I have, after all, entered through two layers of basic wards and a Silencing Bubble.

"Udri is happy to be of assistance, Master Harry," a tiny house elf, an elvish version of a teenager, most likely, bows to Potter and turns its big leaf green eyes to me.

"Udri, this is Professor Snape. Professor Snape, this is Udri."

I nod, because Potter glares when I do not acknowledge the creature immediately – he has some strange ideas about equality between wizards and house elves. At least he is not as obnoxious regarding the matter as Granger is.

"Professor Snape is the Dark Lord's Severus. The one that betrayed," the elf states rather than asks, and glances at Potter quizzically.

"That is correct."

"Professor Snape did evil things. Udri hopes that he will not do evil things to Master Harry… but that is Master Harry's business. Udri will be a call away if Master Harry needs him… for anything."

With a pop, the elf is gone. Potter leans back against the side of a couch. It is strange how he has created the interior of the room so that it contains several seats of different shapes and sizes, but in the end he chooses to sit on the carpet. His robe is slung over the back of the sofa behind him and the clothes he wears – a black shirt and black trousers – definitely do not come from Grimmauld Place. I suspect they used to be Draco's (the size is what he had worn approximately two years ago). Potter's shoes, on the other hand, are something Draco would not come to the vicinity of - they are old, worn Muggle trainers. Not his own originally, either, but I suspect he owns two or three things that were originally his own.

"You are not going to do evil things to me, are you?" he asks with less humour than I would expect from him. The hint of eagerness I register sounds alarms.

He lets me point my wand at him and check him for any outside influence. There is nothing. He is also clear of potions and drugs of any kind. The signs of irrationality I notice now – the emptiness and dullness of his eyes, the predatory look he gives me, his sitting on the ground… I know this expression. I have seen a similar one before, in the Grimmauld Place.

I am going to be… how did he say it? A bastard who tries to make him cry so that he does not kill himself… or anyone else. I kneel on the floor in front of him and lift his chin so that he is looking at me.

"And if I am?" He says nothing. "Are you going to call your little green friend to protect you?"

In a single fluent movement, faster than I can follow, he repositions himself so that he is kneeling in front of me, too close for comfort. His face hardens as he leans closer and, using both his hands, pushes my hair out of my face. I suppress a shudder that I feel creeping up my spine under his critical scrutiny. I cannot even begin to guess his objective, but, in this unpredictable state, he frightens me. I gave him control over fire and other, perhaps basic, but very dangerous tools to make people hurt… or die.

I do not want to die yet.

His right palm slides from my temple to the back of my neck, gentle, stroking my hair. As if approaching a wild animal, he slowly lowers himself, resting his cheek on my shoulder. Only when I feel the movement of air against the skin of my neck, I release the breath I have been holding.

x

I am not entirely sure how, but against ten p.m. I find myself lounging on Potter's couch, far less than sober. I can't recall what the devil got into me that I got drunk when Potter was in this state and in the room…

I turn my head to the side and see him curled up there, in the corner between the back- and the arm-rest. The black shirt's bunched up, letting a tiny sliver of pasty skin show. It's in such a vivid contrast with the black of the shirt, that it seems as though it was shining.

"How did we end like this?" he asks. I can't but shake my head. "Oh… yeah, I've had to get away from Ron and Mione…" I couldn't care less about the two.

"Where is Draco?"

Potter, like a total barbarian, takes a swig from the bottle and stands it on the table. He licks his lips to clean them off residual alcohol and, all of sudden, stands up. He wavers, but remains upright with the aid of the backrest he grips in reflex.

Oh fuck. I got a student drunk. I am so…

"Screwed."

"Yeah. Quite possibly. He's already got a fanclub bigger than ever… little Huff'puff girlies follow him around. He'll be getting a bed-ful of teddy-bears on Valentine's."

That's far more information than I ever wanted to hear. But my unspoken desire for his shutting up audibly isn't enough to actually make him shut up.

"He's so… so beautifully alive, isn't he?" For an instance Potter looks at me, and I nod, suggesting that I follow his thoughts and agree. Draco is full of potential, after the slight bump of this summer blossoming with youth. Repairable. "Sirius… Sirius would have understood me," Potter growls. It is a low, guttural sound filled with rage, thirst for revenge and despair. I don't even care that he speaks about Black. I hated the man, but, for gods' sake, he's a corpse… actually not even that much's left of him. I lean back and watch Potter rant at the empty walls.

"Sirius would have loved me. He was like I am. That's the true appalling tragedy of his death. He had been dying for two years, slowly rotting away, ignored by everyone. I can see it clearly… in hindsight. His death was his saving… and my damnation. The irony is that had he waited a while longer… two months, perhaps… I would've been there with him." He's suspiciously eloquent in his speech. He has not drunk as much as I have, but he is fairly lightweight and with no past experience with alcoholic beverages. He should be crawling on all four, not waxing deipnosophy.

"Remus is clinging to the Light with obsession born from denying his werewolf side." He turns to me and meets my eyes, more lucid than I have expected him to be, but taking the chance on unburdening himself while he can blame the lack of restraint on the intoxication. "I wanted to seduce him… I almost tried, but he's so _pure_, so _innocent_ even in all his sins, so _good_ it's making me sick. I wanted to take that away from him, make him like I am… but to do that, I would need to be just as pathetically pure as he is."

His face screws up in a grimace, and he rubs his eyes, but the tears I've been waiting for so long don't come. What do I need to do? If not even getting him drunk and blabbering about seducing Lupin – which idea would revolt me if I weren't as drunk as I am – can make him let go enough to cry, what then?

"And I am not. I'm not. I can't."

I see the reasoning. What's sinful about hurting something that doesn't feel, stealing something that nobody wants, or betraying something that wasn't righteous to begin with? Nothing, or very, very little. The werewolf couldn't be tarnished by destroying what had been dust before he even approached.

"Remus is going to remain _good_ and untouched by my Darkness because he's too… too Light. He's making me hurt just by looking at him."

There's the corruption of the wizardkind in all its bile-rising dubitable beauty – the Dark creature, lauded as the hero of the Light. And all the man does is moan about being treated like pestilence. I wonder what he would do if they treated him like they treat me? Die, maybe?

Righteousness doesn't become me, even with the amount of alcohol I have consumed. I concede the fact and concentrate on the Saviour, who's looking like he'll start throwing up any minute now. Green looks just _fetching_ on him.

I, not deliberately, laugh into his face. "There's a simple solution to that problem." Yes, this is why I prefer to drink alone. Because I tend to say what I think and do what I feel like doing when I am under the Influence.

But Potter (who isn't so much of a Potter – more of a _riddle_, truly) doesn't balk. He considers the statement and nods. He seems to suffer a problem eerily similar to mine – he speaks his mind freely.

"I could kill him," he states calmly, as a fact that while… well, _factual_, isn't really feasible to act upon. "Yes, that _would_ be a solution." More nods to stress the truthfulness of the statement.

"But you're only Dark," I remind him unnecessarily. Maybe I say it more to assure myself and to warn him. "_Not_ evil." I pray to whatever deities it may concern that he remains his righteous Gryffindor self, or we may well defeat Voldemort just to make a vacancy for Potter.

"Exa-actly!" He exclaims. His voice echoes off the empty walls. "I am defined by not taking the final step to become what Tom has become…" Potter implores me to understand, but I can't. That is out of my league. While having had a singularly unpleasant childhood, I neither have the power, nor suffer the acute despair that a wizard needs to become a Dark Lord. I see them both in Potter, and gods, I'm back to _that_ train of thought. Yes, he would be a terrible Dark Lord. Like V-V- I'm so pitiful that I can't even _think_ His pseudonym… like Him. And I wouldn't serve Potter, even though this time I would understand the big 'What's and 'Who's and 'Why's.

"He took it because he wanted the pain to finally, _finally_ fucking stop…" the boy says, rubbing his eyes. They must sting something awful, what with there being no tears left to cry. I know. I know, Harry. I know… "It all makes sense to me. I could be like him…" I know. "I could be _worse_." I know. But I would die before that happened. Maybe we both would. Yes, death – that's the ultimate solution.

"You're better off dead."

He stands straighter and pins me with a suspiciously piercing gaze. Is he only faking the inebriation or – oh, Merlin and all his… – is he _capable of controlling it_?

"Funny, that's what I thought. There's a trouble with that, too, though." Yes, there is that. The prophecy. "And what about you, _Severus_?"

What about me? I stare at him, startled and slightly apprehensive.

"You're not good, not pure, and sure as fuck not Light. Would you bed me? Hypothetically, I mean." He chuckles. I cannot fathom what answer he wants to hear. I don't even have any idea whether the question is ironic or serious. Bed him? He's not disgusting to me, but he's far from beautiful. While I might feel a little attraction, when I search for it, it's all based on abstract qualities. And he's too young. And a student. And emotionally as good as dead. I am not into necrophilia.

"I don't think so."

"See?" he says with a raised eyebrow. His pupils are dilated again, the drunkenness returning full-force. "I'm not even good enough to bugger. Just to kill. I'm Dumbledore's little pet killing machine." He picks up the bottle from the table, takes a deep draught and smiles a crazy, toothy smile. "But a good one, you've got to give me that."

x

After waking up on Saturday morning alone in the Room of Requirement, I decide that I definitely do not feel like meeting Potter for a lesson. The awareness that we seriously discussed whether I would have sex with him disturbs my – already dubious – mental equilibrium. The one thing that keeps me from drowning myself in the lake is the answer I gave him… never mind that I decided so for all the wrong reasons.

But he asked me, did he not? He asked a hypothetical question, and there is nothing to it. As a teenager, insecure, he is bound to be exploring his possibilities. He has no one to ask these questions, and although it makes me want to Obliviate myself (following Lockhart's example is a low I hope I shall never sink to), it is better than if he developed some serious complexes from his insecurities.

On the other hand, I could not have done much to increase his self-worth…

I am bitterly denied amnesia due to consumed toxins, so either I leave it to nature and hope that something less… gruesome springs up to occupy my mind, or I do it like a normal human being – drink myself into oblivion.

I take the latter route.

x

The next time I can think moderately clearly again, it is Sunday evening. I feel a burning need for headache cure, shower and sleep. I drink the first vial, complete my ablutions, detachedly noticing that my ribs stick out almost like Potter's do, and finally down a jigger of Dreamless Sleep Potion.

x

I experience the backlash in the morning. The combination of alcohol and the two potions I drugged myself with causes inappetence, and after two days of inebriated fast I decimate my wreck of a body further by skipping breakfast. By the time classes start I am feeling worse than I used to feel after a routine Death Eater meeting.

For the first time this school-year, the vacant-headed blighters exit my classroom pale and shaking, terrorised out of their markedly scarce wits and talents.

The day drags on for a shorter forever.

In a spectacular show of cosmic injustice, the sixth-years trickle into the room, body by body, until their number amounts to the full, record-breaking six. I watch them blearily (from behind hair that is far cleaner than I would prefer it to be and bloody waves with every movement of the air) as they take their places and fish in their bags for quills, ink, parchment and books.

"Put everything away!" I snap at them the first thing. "I want clear tables. Macmillan, collect the essays." My glare intensifies when they freeze in mid-motion, gaping instead of obeying the instruction. "Now!" Morrigan knows I do not get paid enough for this. They finally grasp the simple concept and deign to comply, and I wonder if this will be the first time that the N.E.W.T. class utterly fails its given assignment this year.

"Macmillan, you are sixteen years old! When do you intend to comprehend the concept of 'now'?!"

Abandoning his frantic packing, the Hufflepuff grabs five parchments extended to him by his marginally helpful classmates, who apparently thank whatever higher power that they were not called upon instead of him. The boy approaches my desk with an intimately familiar expression of a stag in front of an angry dragon, virtually throws the collected homework on the wooden surface and hastily retreats to the deceitful illusion of safety behind the Gryffindors. Perhaps I have become too complacent with these students, if a mere bad mood makes them revert to their first-year behaviour.

I should have given them a pop-quiz instead of this, but my mental faculties were not sufficient for any level of professionalism anytime during this weekend. I glance at the essays. The upper one is Granger's; I almost suspect it to be on purpose, except that the boy seemed scared out of any semblance of intelligence. The headline reads: Generic Disinfectants.

"Select and brew a disinfectant."

In my borderless pessimism, I mentally prepare to spend the next twenty minutes browsing essays of varying quality while waiting for the unavoidable explosions. Unfortunately, one of them is written in Potter's chicken-scrawl, which of itself is a horrific prospect.

"What the Hell's happened to Snape?!" one of the girls asks in such a loud whisper that it is hard to believe she did not intend for me to hear.

"Five points from Ravenclaw, Miss Turpin," I reply evenly. Usually at this point I would allow my rage to show, if only to vent some of it, but I am afraid that in my current state I might maim some of these students permanently.

The snigger from the opposite side of the room does not aid my self-control.

"Five points from Slytherin, Mr Zabini."

"You can't do that!"

My fingers spasmodically grip the handle of my wand. I have to tell myself clearly that this is but a child, a spoilt, stupid, pathetic child. Someone who does not yet realise that his words and deeds have consequences. Someone so fundamentally different from Potter, who is the aboriginal cause of my mood.

"Five more for speaking out of turn, _and_ ten for disrespect towards a teacher," I reply, eventually lifting my head. I do not think he recognises my expression – the only one in this room who might have a chance to do so is Potter, for he is the only who has seen Death Eaters in throes of homicidal wrath.

Zabini shuts up, saving somebody's life. I look back down at Granger's essay, peripherally noticing that Potter has lowered himself into a half-crouch, gripping his wand, prepared to defend, as if he was standing in the middle of the battle. He keeps the position for nearly a minute before relenting, reasonably certain that I am not going to attack anyone.

Finally, _finally_ the six dunderheads set to work.

x

As if Lady Luck decided to smile upon me for once in my god-forsaken existence, the next forty-five minutes are not marked by explosion after all. Despite being frightened out of their senses, these six are proficient enough in potions to not create a major catastrophe. Greengrass's concoction is little more than very expensive pungent mud due to complete eclipse of brain (which is a good example of why she was not one of those slaughtered at the end of July) and Macmillan's shaking hands are the reason why he adds too much powdered lizard scales, which causes excessive effervescence. The boy's hands are lightly spattered with the liquid and in a true Hufflepuff spirit he wails so loud that I open the door for him just to get him out of my earshot as fast as humanly possible.

Potter keeps his wand at the ready throughout the entire episode. It rankles. Does he believe that I would truly harm any of my students? I have refrained from cursing _him_ in an instance that was far more emotional for me than a simple botched potion.

I write an elongated zero next to Macmillan's and Greengrass's name, and wait for the rest to bring samples of their pathetic attempts at brewing to my desk, clean their work-stations and leave the room.

However, here the cheerful disposition of the fortunes towards me meets its early end. The lock clicks, which it definitely _should not_, because the only one permitted to open or close the door is myself. I know perfectly well who remained in the room with me and wish that it was not so – that he would not be here or that I would have no reason to know or even suspect his identity.

I feel Potter's eyes on me. He waits patiently for some acknowledgement, but I am disinclined to grant it. It is a fool's hope that if I ignore him long enough, he might change his mind, or lose his resolve, and go away. It would have worked on a less stubborn specimen.

I curse the Dark Lord for reducing the number of students in my N.E.W.T. class so radically; if there were more of them, there would have been more essays and I would have something to occupy myself with while attempting to ignore Potter's undesired presence. Finally, because there is only a certain amount of time one can pretend to be blind and deaf before their obstinacy runs out, I glare at him.

He seems, in fact, slightly nervous.

"Why must you pester me now?"

He, with some difficulty, suppresses a sigh. I wish for at least a cup of tea so that I could feel like I was doing something he was intruding upon. However, there is only a step to lemon drops from there and I hope that I shall never ascend to such heights where my power will be surpassed only by my eccentricity. The dull realisation of where I am _not_ heading and the memory of the other extreme path, which I have also abandoned once upon a time, somehow help me concentrate on here and now. The irrational aggravation I have been feeling since the early morning does not disappear, but greatly diminishes.

"What happened on Friday?" he asks quietly, as if he somehow understood that there is no acute danger of being cursed for encroachment upon my privacy. It is, incidentally, one of the worst possible questions he could have had. I so very much do not want to think of that day.

When I look at him, though, I can clearly see that there is no way I could avoid it. He is so confused, so… uncertain. As if we played Russian Roulette and it was his turn to put the barrel to his temple.

"You do not remember?"

He shakes his head. As he stands here, clad in his (_Regulus's_) school uniform, with a bag slung over his shoulder and an almost innocent expression of perplexity and expectance on his face, he looks like a child. I am aware than he is not, in fact, as naïve as that expression conveys, but the truth is that he is still sixteen… the sixteen-year-old I have gotten drunk.

I have heard it said that alcohol is source of all evil… It is very nearly true. I am unaware of any connection to the Dark Lord, but otherwise it just about sums up the way the world works – and explains my current mood. I lower my head, hiding my grimace behind my joined hands.

"Sir?"

He queries, when I seem too lost in thought to reply. I do not want to reply at all. I could tell him that he informed me about the designs he had had on Lupin, but the mental picture that thought produces makes me decide that I will _not_ discuss it, ever again. It will be easier to pretend that it never happened if he did not know.

"Sir?" he repeats.

"You never before voluntarily called me sir," I remark, vexed far less than I would expect myself to be. "What in the blazes would make you start now?" The lack of bite behind that sentence shows how lost I truly am. Not even such a trespass beyond the line of decency as transpired on Friday rebuilds the wall that should rightly stand between us.

"That is not quite accurate, but… You know, _sir_… respect is not _given_; it's _deserved_."

Such impudence. Such elementary, childish, clichéd wisdom, gained through life under the authority of people more concerned about images than him. How could I have expected respect from him? Fear, certainly… I condition my students to fear me. But Potter does not succumb to his fears – he fights them.

"You, Mr Potter, are an odd child." Unique, pig-headed, powerful, deadly, self-destructive child. Sometime during this conversation my anger has abated.

He smiles at me, confusion forgotten in light of my inability to escape the mutual understanding… his dependence on me… I chose this. I have consciously decided to let him into _circulos meos_… I only misjudged his ability to draw people to him.

"That I am," he agrees, brushing aside a lock of charcoal hair to free one green eye. "I don't think I can respect someone who doesn't respect me. And thus, Professor, it took us long years to come to the first tentative bit of mutual understanding."

It is truth, but that does not mean I will allow him to berate me like an errant child. I had higher goals at the time; _I_ struggled through lack of appreciation, and dislike towards him was one of the little pleasures I was granted. Therefore the irony is lost on me.

"Such insolence calls for further loss of points-"

"Oh yes, it does," he cuts me off, suddenly scowling. This is the arrogance I have always criticised him for, glaring and indomitable. This is what he inherited from his father, so often mistaken for bravery or stupidity, but in fact it is the same affliction that Minerva suffers – the unshakeable belief that his opinion is correct. "Is it not unfortunate that the House cannot lose points for the behaviour of their Head? You single-handedly would manage to put Slytherin into negative, year after year…"

How I despise this side of him. It kindles the dying ember of ire within me, and a moment later the flame blazes anew.

I arise from the desk, acutely aware that this pathetic twisted creature is the reason why all I remember of the last weekend is headache, hangover and the traumatising conversation. I have not taken points for that. I have not assigned detentions. He has no right to bother me with his misplaced righteousness.

"Do not take that tone with me, _Potter_. We are not _that_ close."

It was supposed to make him either subdued or angry, but either way one step closer to finally getting out of this blasted room. I will have a lesson in less than a minute and the door is still locked. I did not expect him to actually latch onto that statement – I have not, in fact, realised that there was anything to latch onto.

"Why not?" he asks, with earnest that startles me.

"What?"

"Why not?" He repeats. I try to remember what it was exactly that I said, why he blurts out question after question that lack substance and context until I recall my own wording. "Is it lack of trust? Lack of understanding? Unwillingness? Ignorance of something important? Is it our past haunting us?"

We are not that close. That is what I said. It came from my damned subconscious, and now it is too late to make it unsaid. I do not wish to become closer to him… and I never anticipated him to wish something like that.

"I hold a great _affection_ for you, Professor." Lares, I would rather not think of what kind of 'affection' he might 'hold for me'. This is all wrong. He should hate me. I should hate him. It was all fine and well for five years, and we should have continued the same way. Why did I even attempt this?

I scowl and glance at his flushed face, shadowed by wild black fringe, in distaste.

"You may have conveniently forgotten our last conversation, Potter, but I have not. The last thing I want do now is talk to you. Be so agreeable and get out."

He looks away from me and waves his hand. I do not take it as a gesture commending me to be silent, but I find that I do not have anything more I wanted to say. He rubs his face, gradually returning to his customary pale lack of colouring. A deep, monumental sadness reflects on his face for a moment before he masks it.

"Never mind," he says tonelessly. "I'm sorry for my outburst, sir. I will endeavour not to inconvenience you further."

He turns away, unlocks and opens the door with a complicated motion of his wand while walking towards it.

"Potter!" I call. I need to stop him. He just reminded me. _This_ is why I chose to abandon the enmity between us. This is what I was trying to prevent.

He ignores me. Before I realise what I am doing, I have already followed him into the corridor.

"Potter!"

At a pace just short of run he turns the corner.

I let out a foul curse in Norse, and turn to face two rows of thunderstruck Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws trying to become one with the walls.


	16. One Man Army

One Man Army 

x

Even though no one truly exploits them, I am required to keep office hours. It is therefore much to my dismay when an unexpected and heart-fully resented knocking disturbs my reading, which emotion is intensified by the fact that I cannot afford to pretend that I am not present, lest the (presumably) student behind the door might get it into his or her head to consult the Headmaster. My mood is bad enough without having been offered a lemon drop and cautioned about the rules I am required to adhere to.

I open the blasted door with a wave of my wand… uncovering the least expected person. After our recent discords, I would have thought Draco would keep his distance.

He strides in as if the room belonged to him, reminiscent of his old behaviour so much that for a moment I wonder whether the change of heart instilled in him by Potter was real at all. He looks around the jars on display and grimaces, while his wand moves rapidly, casting a series of pre-selected privacy charms. When he deems the room sufficiently safe he turns to face me, eyes blazing with silent fury.

"What did you do to him?!"

I blink. What did I do to whom? Who could be a Malfoy so concerned about… Potter. Of course. How much the blighter really did for Draco to ensnare him so completely? I would like to say I will not stand for it, but I do not really have any say in the matter.

"That is no business of yours, Lord Malfoy." I am trying to make him angry enough to leave me alone… but it does not work anymore. He has come to terms with his parents' deaths rather easily. I was aware that there was little love lost in that family, but I have not expected him to deal with it so quickly and so completely. I suspect Potter's influence there as well – after all, is it not believed to be my credo that all unfortunate happening is Potter's fault?

"You are wrong, Professor Snape," he replies calmly. Who is this boy? Why do I not recognise the manner of speech, the patience and honour, the dignity? I know I have lost him… but it hurts to see that he has grown into a man and all I can do about it is snark.

"What do you want?" I growl at him and look at the essay on top of the stack, pretending to read it as a deliberate slight to him.

"I want to know what you did that hurt Harry Potter, _sir_." I sneer, still not taking my glare off the scrawl on the parchment. But even that fails to irritate him. "Barring that, I want _you_ to know that should you harm him again, I will retaliate. You might not take this threat seriously, but I assure you, _sir_, that I have inherited considerable financial, political and magical power, and I am willing to protect Harry to the best of my abilities."

That is, I must admit, a frightening prospect. It never does to underestimate a Malfoy – that is a slow and painful suicide. I am not afraid of a physical confrontation with him, but on a wider field he would win. I now have an inkling of why Potter commands such loyalty, but to have uncovered it in Draco Malfoy, and for it to be so fierce, so determined… it is a miracle.

"Why are you here?" I ask in a tone that sends first-years scampering into their dormitories to hide under their beds.

He faces me, protected by a set of mind shields, unafraid in the least. Those eyes are the same grey as his father's, but as different as they can be, with fire rather than ice behind them. He reminds me of Granger right now – intelligent, dangerous, devoted.

"Because I love him, _sir_," he says simply.

This is not happening. No, Draco is well-taught. He, just like Potter said, prefers women. He will marry a witch and sire an heir-

"I see what you are thinking, _Professor_," he scoffs. "You must be losing your touch." Much like he a while ago, I ignore the insult. "You know very well that there never was and never will be a romantic relationship between Harry and myself, for neither of us desires it."

I think back to the scene I happened upon in the Headquarters. I think I understand what Draco is saying, despite my complete incapability of empathy for him. I might also be slightly jealous.

"_Lord_ Malfoy, I am still a teacher in this school, and thus entitled to treat my students as I deem fit. You have detention with Mr McAllister for a week for 'threatening a teacher'. I would wish you a good evening, but I know it will not be."

He nods curtly, accepting the gauntlet I have virtually slapped his face with, and leaves. I sigh and attempt to hide myself from the world in a true giraffish fashion. As if a heart-broken Potter, a double-crossed Dark Lord, twenty-five betrayed Death Eaters and six billions of generally antagonistic entities was not enough – I _had_ to add a Malfoy on the path of vengeance to my list of people to deal with.

x

Potter does not show up for his private lessons, and for almost four and half a day I manage to force myself to sneer at his sulking, until the dam just breaks and I shatter my last bottle of Alsikescotch by throwing it against the wall in impotent rage at stupid adolescent Saviours, covertly condescending Headmasters, homicidal Dark Lords and the source of many of my most pressing problems – the Alsikescotch itself.

I leave my quarters so that the house elves have enough space to repair and clean whatever is salvageable, all the while berating myself for losing control so completely. It has not happened to me in… more than a year, actually. There is only one thing that can drive me to pointless destruction… failure, and subsequent frustration with my own shortcomings.

I walk out of the castle into a bright October Saturday morning. There are few students scattered on the lawn, which I still cannot look at without recalling the aftermath of the July battle. They have not seen it, though, and the place does not make them queasy. I walk towards the lake, since there is a chance that I might find privacy behind the trees there.

I do not get so far, however. A black-clad body in the centre of a slope on the edge of the lake draws me in that direction. Which idiot thought it would be a good idea to lie on the ground in the middle of fall, in chilly morning, _wearing no overcoat_?

It is, naturally, an inane question. It is the most idiotic idiot of them all, the one singularly unconcerned about himself, the one lost in depression…

He lies spread-eagled on Slytherin-green grass, Avada Kedavra eyes staring blankly at the sky… Something cold clutches at my heart when I see him there… he looks like dead.

"Potter!" I do not think I could forgive myself if the single person I allowed under my emotional armour were so disappointed with me that they would never come back. "Merlin, Potter, are you trying to catch your death?"

"I know I must not die yet, Professor," he replies dispassionately, and turns his head, though I doubt he sees more of me than a dark blotch. "That doesn't stop the longing, though…" I do not want him to die. It is very likely that he will, and soon, but it hurts me just to think about it… And the knowledge that he has so little to live for that he would contemplate suicide scares me.

He turns away from me again, gazing at the clouds (though he cannot see anything but endless grey) and mutters: "You only care because it would look bad in the papers: The Boy Who Lived No Longer Does Because Of Hypothermia. But guess what? I never cared about the headlines." That's so, so _far from the goddamn truth_… everything that he just said is lie or fiction and I will not stand for it.

I kneel on the grass and slap him – not hard enough to leave a bruise, but sufficiently to snap him out of this disgusting fit of self-pity. He lets the blow fall and does not retaliate at all, only looks at me, and a spark of light returns to his eyes.

"So you do care…" he whispers.

"Of course I do, idiot child!" What did he think? That I was _nice_ to a random Gryffindor once upon a blue moon?

Even though… I did not intend to admit it aloud.

"I wasn't so sure… after our last conversation…"

I think by now it is perfectly clear to _everyone_ that I do not understand people. He should have known that I was being a bastard out of ignorance, not malice. But he is so… so _fucking fragile_…

"What the bloody hell are you doing?!" bellows an angry voice from behind me, and a few stomping footfalls later a heavy hand falls on my shoulder and I am wrenched away from Potter. I come face to face with the youngest male Weasley. He is flushed and breathing hard; his chest is heaving and generally he looks very menacing – but I have attended Voldemort's revels and hot-tempered adolescents fail to instigate fear in me.

A moment later Granger arrives. She, too, has been running, and she, too, looks beyond irate.

"You have no right to do that! The Headmaster will hear about this!" the young woman spits and kneels on the grass next to Potter, staining her uniform green but not caring one whit. She extends her hand and gently touches Potter's cheek. "Are you alright, Harry?"

I finally catch on what has two thirds of the Golden Trio in a snit – from distance it might have looked like I was beating Potter up. Well, I _did_ hit him, but not with the intention to cause pain, and he knows it. I ignore Weasley and look over to the menace. The corners of his mouth are twitching.

"I'm fine, Mione," he says and smiles at her to give credence to those empty words. "Ron, let the Professor go." Until now I have not even noticed that Weasley was keeping hold of my robes. Whatever else these two might be, I admit that they are _good_ friends… if rather dim at times, because Potter has to repeat himself before Weasley reacts at all. "Ron!"

Still, the boy refuses to set me free.

"B-but… Harry!" he sputters. Oh, the wonders of Gryffindor eloquence… at least Potter seems to be cured of _that_ particular curse. "He hit you!"

Potter shakes his head, and he and Granger pull one another to their feet.

"There is hit – and _hit_, Ron. I needed that. Let go."

Weasley blinks a few times and looks at his friend as though he had just proclaimed his undying love for me.

"You… you needed that…" he says, slowly, watching Potter all the while and silently begging him to reconsider. Potter remains unrelenting.

"Let go, Ron," he says for the third time. "I'm glad you want to defend me, but this is a front for a one man army." Either this is some insider reference, or he managed to startle Weasley into releasing me, because suddenly I am free to move again. I look over at Potter and communicate my silent gratitude for averting a mêlée that could end with people in the hospital wing.

"May I see you later?" he asks quietly, ignoring both Granger's and Weasley's fish impressions. I nod my consent, and decide not to take points from either of them, despite Potter's lack of sense and Weasley's lack of intelligence and decorum.

"Take care of your friend, Miss Granger," I warn the girl, who has yet to stop scowling at me (when she is not currently gaping at Potter), "lest we be forced to find him a new nickname."

I stride away from the Trio, and my feet carry me back into the castle without a conscious decision to return. Somehow I do not mind. The all-encompassing bleakness I have felt before has been driven away by those five words and the hopeful tone they were spoken in.

x

In spite of the next Dark Arts lesson being scheduled for Thursday, I find Potter on the threshold of my office shortly past five in the afternoon on Monday. He still carries his bag, so impatient to speak to me that he has skipped a stop in the Gryffindor Tower to divest himself off the scholarly sinkstone. I strongly suspect that were he aware of the location of my private quarters, he would have pestered me there on Saturday already.

It is scary that my approval means that much to the boy. How lost, how affection-starved he must be to hang onto _me_ this desperately… despite all the insensitivity and bitterness I keep throwing his way on a regular basis.

"Professor…" he lets his voice fade out, and in its wake the faint yet multifold echo. There is still neigh an hour until the dinner, in the case I shall decide to attend it at all. I stand and, rather than beckoning him inside the room, steer him away. He catches on while I re-ward the door, and follows a respectful half-step behind me.

"I've read ahead… a bit," he speaks, quietly, sounding me out anew. The equilibrium between us from a week ago has been shattered, and he is attempting to gauge how far I will allow him to go this time. It is not going to be the same, although, apparently, the relationship between our teacher-, respectively student-, personas remains unchanged, as was clearly for all to see in class this afternoon.

"Will wonders never cease…" I mutter, ushering him into the classroom and activating the silencing charms.

"You have expressed clearly that the confidence between us was undesired, sir, and, as these lessons were precisely in that confidence, I thought you would have been content if they stopped."

"Potter…" I sigh and mentally curse myself yet again for persisting. However, as this past few days displayed, there is no other way for me. It is too late to attempt and push him away, too late to extricate myself from this elaborate net that I spun and caught myself in. Damn him.

"I don't have to understand, sir."

But he has to. He needs to. Who is to say that an analogical situation will not happen in the future – I know myself well enough to doubt my ability to prevent it.

"Potter, you need at least one person you can talk to-"

"I don't want you to sacrifice yourself. You've done enough of that already. And there would be little more thanks for this sacrifice. It's just not worth it."

"Let me be the judge of that," I growl. He seats himself on one of the desks lining the wall, produces three fireballs and juggles them to keep his hands occupied, while his eyes do not stray away from me. "I did offer you… solace."

"In Grimmauld Place. It was… a strange evening. The memory's quite jumbled," he admits, catching the balls from mid-air and putting them out with a series of blue flames and smell of ozone. He rests his hands on his thighs. "It was… something different. For a few days I thought I had dreamt it, but obviously I have not… I don't know what you want me to think of you."

"I have no ulterior motivation, if that is what you are asking." What motivation would I have? I have no personal life to speak of, no professional ambitions and, having been uncovered as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, no ambitions with regards to the war.

"Why then would you bother?" he asks, sneering a little, believing my words despite himself. Obviously, a single slap and an assurance that I _do_ care is not enough for him to trust me blindly. "You hated me." The past tense in the sentence shows that the pointless argument we have had did not manage to undo _all_ of my progress. In fact, it might be taken as an accomplishment, for Potter had let himself be driven by _his emotions_.

"Potter, I have surrendered my life to 'the cause'. If the only disservice I can do to the Dark Lord now is keeping you alive _and sane_, then that is what I shall do."

He scowls, and I am surprised to be allowed to see the expression. Apparently, he resents that the little 'kindness' offered to him is only to spite the bane of his existence, not for him. Perhaps I should not have phrased it like that… but it is the truth. That I became too entangled to let go now is secondary.

"I wish you good luck with your quest, Professor," he says with heavy sarcasm. "I doubt, however, that your 'subject' will be co-operative." He draws his wand and I reach for mine, uncertain of whether he is or is not a danger to me. He conjures a blade of fire – a spell far more advanced than what I taught him (then again, juggling fireballs is also far beyond the level of proficiency in Dark Arts he should have reached by now). "Besides, sanity is overrated." He traces the tip of the flame a scant half-inch from the skin of his neck, for a few seconds halting above his jugular.

I am reminded of what Moody claimed about his compatriots when he extracted a promise that I would guide Potter. Usually I do not put much weight on these words, and the assurance I gave to the man is about the last reason why I do this now… Indeed, perhaps sanity is not a quality needed in the Saviour, nevertheless, _insanity_ is _most definitely_ not one. He must not be left alone, emotionally isolated from everyone and everything.

"Potter," I say with far less exasperation than I feel. "Whatever deliberation may have preceded my offer, rest assured that the comfort provided was genuine. I did not lie to you, nor do I intend to, should you decide to continue our association outside the educational routine."

The way he so obviously wants to take the metaphorical hand I have extended and yet at the same time remains wary and watchful resembles a caged wild animal. I refuse to bare my throat to him, especially since he still wields his sword of flame. Its tip follows me closely when I move.

"What is it you offer _now_?" he asks sceptically. I have to think for a while before I answer. I do not actually understand which irrational propulsion is behind our current situation; I am merely certain that what I originally set out to do with Potter was an important thing… whatever it was. I have no option but to trust my own judgement from that time.

"I will teach you… and I will listen to you," I force myself to say. Potter lets out a bitter, hollow laugh that sends shivers down my spine.

"Listen to me?" he snarls in a fairly good imitation of myself. "I don't remember what exactly I told you when I got smashed, but I can hazard a guess. I _trusted_ you! I trust nobody, but I trusted you, and you threw it into my face! Have you any idea… any idea… how it hurt?!" His breathing is loud and ragged. For a moment he loses control over the flame; it explodes, singing his already burn-scarred forearms and then it goes out. He lets his hands fall, staring at the floor, ignoring the pain he must feel, empty now that the momentary rage left him. "I didn't want to say that…" he whispers.

What have I to lose? I have already admitted aloud that I cared about him, and even though he has troubles believing it now, I know that it shows in my actions and a time will come when it will be clear for him to see. Like right now…

Since it has already worked once, there is a reasonable probability that it shall work again. I cross the distance between us, slowly, approaching him just like I would approach the wild animal he reminds me of. A step away from him I replace my wand in the holster and extend my hand. Let him be the first to touch me… let him be certain that I am not going to attack…

But Potter only lifts his head and stares at me with equal portions of quandary and heartbreak.

I decide to risk it. I take him into my arms, a gesture which seems far less alien to me now then it did in the Headquarters. I am prepared to wait for fifteen minutes if that is what he needs, or sit down on the freezing stone and draw him into my lap, just like last time… but it is not like last time at all. He shifts in the embrace, resting his head against my collarbone, facing the wall lined with desks. After a while his right hand moves up to my shoulder; the singed forearm remains mostly out of my sight, but I do not doubt it is in exactly the same state as his left one. The robe and shirt he wears are destroyed, but they bore the brunt of the damage and his skin, while affected, is not in need of professional treatment.

"If you do it to me again, I will kill you," he says tonelessly. From anyone else such a threat would be laughable, but I am inclined to believe that he meant it literally, and I give it the same respect as I gave to Draco's promise of retaliation. There is one positive thing about Potter's pledge – I shall not live long enough to suffer the Malfoyesque revenge.

"Potter, you should by now know that not all I say I do also mean. I may have been angry, and I may have succumbed to my frustration and lost my temper at you, but that did not mean I refused to speak to you ever again. I was merely… disconcerted by the… incident. If anyone found that it happened, I would lose my job." So much for not baring my neck to him.

The hand on my shoulder tightens with greater strength than I would have suspected in those pencil-thin fingers.

"Do not fuck with me," he growls. "You _knew_ no one would find out."

I hold him tighter before he can squirm out. It was not my intention to lie… but somehow it came down to it. It is an ugly vice of mine.

"I gave you alcohol, Potter! You – my student, who, incidentally, suffers clinical depression!"

"Stop fucking lying to me! You _promised me_ the truth!" he yells, pushing against my chest in effort to set himself free from my arms. It does not work, because I am still stronger than he is, even though the exclamation surprises me: this time I _have_ told him the truth – not the whole truth, of course, but it does not make it any less genuine…

"Do I disgust you that much?" The question is positively absurd from him, while he remains ensconced in my arms. "_You_ should have known that the things inside my head weren't pretty… Did you get scared? Is that the problem?" This inquiry makes more sense.

"No." I am not afraid. I am aware that he might be capable of killing me, but I also know that it is not his wish to do so. And if it did, in the end, come down to him killing me, then I would die and not regret it. With bitter amusement I realise that there is one thing about my life that I shall not regret, after all – its end.

"Then what?"

"_Conscia mens recti famae mendacia ridet_," I say with mocking flippancy directed at myself. "Confiding in me you have broached a subject I wished never to be touched upon. My subsequent denial of you was in self-defence."

"If I broached it once, I'll likely do it again," he warns. I am, naturally, aware of that, but I admit that perhaps I do need the reminder. It shall always make me uneasy to hear him speak of the topic, but the next time he does so it will not be as shocking.

"So you shall," I tell him and deliver my own warning: "And I shall likely disoblige you again, whether intentionally or not."

He looks up at me with those spectacle-enlarged green eyes, considering me.

"Alright."


	17. Dissidents

A/N: Hi… The first half of the story has been updated and the discord within the Order (and associates) is picking up. Several of you, my reviewers, have noted that Harry will soon turn his back on Dumbledore… So the title of this chapter probably comes as no surprise to you.  
I appreciate all kinds of response – it's better to be hated than unnoticed :-)).  
Enjoy. Review.  
Brynn 

x

Dissidents 

x

Potter's Friday lesson in Dark Arts has to be cut short due to a conference. It should have taken place a week ago, but was adjourned in light of the Headmaster's absence, which had something to do with the Wizengamot, but remains shrouded in obscurity to the public, of which I am, in the eyes of the venerable old coot, newly a member.

On my way to the staff room I contemplate the boy who continuously plagues me. He is learning at a rapid speed, virtually soaking up all that I show him, and much more. I have initially given him a list of books to read so that he would have a thorough grounding on the theory before I allowed him to attempt and manipulate the elements, but I suspect that he has read more texts than what I assigned, and learnt to understand and _use_ their contents.

Aside from mastering water at the same level as fire in half as much time, our meetings have changed on personal level. He does not hesitate to challenge me now, more aware of his own power as an individual, accepting his equality to me with difficulty compared to my accepting of the same equality, but for reasons very different. Despite all his demands to be treated like an adult, this first indication of it becoming true has struck him. The shift is smaller with him than with other children becoming self-reliant, but he still feels bereaved at the same time as he feels liberated.

"Professor Snape," Oglethorpe nods at me, startling me into reaching for my wand. I cut the motion short as soon as I take in her face. She is a soft woman with gentle demeanour, very much unsuited for warfare and not truly teacher material, but so far there were no complaints about her that reached my ears.

"Professor Oglethorpe," I reply in fashion and hold the door open for her. She blinks at me with amazement. I can only surmise that she has spent several evenings sharing Minerva's tea (or brandy) and stories.

"Thank you," she says quietly, as if amazed by a simple gesture of basic courtesy. I follow her, without further ado, into the fire-lit room, where I take my usual spot with Viridian on my right and Sinistra – actually, it would be Oglethorpe nowadays – on my left. The rest of the faculty is already present, exchanging pleasantries and, in one particular case, offering lemon drops to the unlucky neighbours. Upon spotting me, Minerva looks as if she has indeed taken one.

"Severus, Odetta!" Dumbledore exclaims. "We can start! Splendid!"

Setting a pile of parchments on the table in front of myself, I think of hundred more fitting epithets.

x

"The boy is completely out of control!" Minerva explodes, startling me out of a reverie on the topic not too far from the theme of the discussion. The Headmaster puts a placating hand on her shoulder.

"There are precedents," he says calmly, capturing the attention of virtually everyone around the table (Trelawney being the notable exception). So Dumbledore has, after all, found a way of dealing with the Potter-Malfoy conundrum.

"There are?" Pomona asks in Minerva's stead. Pairs of eager eyes hang onto the Headmaster's lips. A pity. I would have enjoyed watching them run around in circles for a while longer.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replies and adds a dramatic pause for effect, aiding nothing but his image of eccentric omniscience. "Shortly after the war against Grindelwald, there was a large number of orphans attending Hogwarts. Those who had no legally adult siblings were made a ward of the school; the rest became the responsibility of their older brothers and sisters, several of which were still before their graduation."

Quiet descends upon the room humming with curiosity. Minerva is slightly too old to remember the time as a student yet too young to have been a teacher. Skimming the faces of the staff rather than questioningly staring at the Headmaster, I realise that only (paradoxically) Viridian and Oglethorpe seem to know what the solution was at the time.

"It was instated that the discipline of these children was the responsibility of the staff, despite the presence of their legal guardians."

"Marvellous!" Viridian exclaims, barely waiting for the Headmaster to finish the sentence. "Then we can wrap up this matter and move onto something else." The light dusting of sarcasm is heard by only a few, but Dumbledore and Minerva are included and the woman takes it rather personally.

"I see that it doesn't matter to you that your students are uncontrollable-"

He raises an eyebrow in a gesture I know too well from Potter (who most likely adopted it from myself).

"Do you truly wish that Potter were easily controllable? Can you see him in Hufflepuff, smiling blandly at everything nice and shaking in his boots at the sight of everything scary? We _need_ him like he is-"

"Vindictus, that was uncalled for-" Albus attempts to chastise the man, but his words fall on deaf ears and he is cut off by another disapproving member of the staff – Pomona.

"I'll have you know even Hufflepuffs can be brave and intelligent. Cedric Diggory for example was-"

"Killed," Viridian interposes. Pomona's face loses all colour, becoming an unhealthy grey.

"Vindictus!"

The man _does_ have the guts of a Gryffindor and the tongue of a Slytherin. Truly admirable – although lacking in self-preservation in a way I could never afford, barely tolerated as I am already. I know I must keep these opinions to myself, and thus it is intensely gratifying to finally hear them voiced.

"I want to hear what is going to be done with Malfoy and Potter!" Minerva exclaims, shifting the topic back to the original one. I do not bother suppressing a smirk – all it took for the woman to start ostensibly disapproving of her Golden Boy was him socialising with Slytherins.

"I have already assigned Mr Malfoy a week of detentions," I offer, leaving out the true reason why I did so. While Draco's presence in the Gryffindor Tower does not please me in the least, I am willing to tolerate it. I do not consider it a punishment-warranting offence.

Minerva seems startled for a moment, then recovers her mental faculties and eventually consents to my decision by way of a nod of approval, and we are able to move on to other subjects.

x

Potter is, for some unfathomable reason, disappointed with his results. He throws a sphere of water straight upward, waits until it reaches the top point of its ascent, then throws another one. The first one falls, straight into his palm and he sends it back up, just in time to catch the second… With his wand clutched in his left hand he tries to form a fireball, only to have the two water spheres sizzle and vaporise.

"Why can't I use them both at the same time?" he asks with just a hint of disappointment.

"Fire and water are opposing elements – opposing energies. When they clash, they can hold out against each other, but these are coming from the same source – yourself. Therefore-"

"They cancel out already in my core."

I suppress the irritation at his cutting me off on the grounds that it showed that he was thinking for himself at least a little. I suppose that is not exactly fair, but his insistence on attempting the impossible seems more than a little childish to me.

"Correct. You might be able, with a great amount of practice, to co-ordinate two non-opposing elements."

Potter casts a basic Healing Charm on his palm, lightly scalded by the hot vapour. I am pleasantly surprised to see that he had the sense to learn some medi-wizardry, although with his propensity for injury, I would have expected Granger to have crammed his head with healing spells and the like already in their first year.

"But why can't they be cast separately? Can't Occlumency help with that?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Which part of 'coming from the same source' did he not understand?

"Occlumency cannot separate your magical core into two independent parts, Potter!"

I close my eyes after the outburst and take a deep breath. I did not want to succumb to the exasperation. I know I am acting overly inhibited around him, but I am still coming to terms with our last conflict and how I have reacted.

I am startled when I feel something touch my forehead. Opening my eyes helps determine that the something is Potter's palm – my first instinct is to jump away and curse, but thankfully I do not. I have, on several occasions, endured the Dark Lord's touch – Potter's is perfectly fine in comparison (not that I am happy about him touching me). The palm is his left one – the one not injured. It is dry and neither warm, nor cold. Just a normal, albeit bony, hand.

"Hmm…" he mutters, looking at me critically. I do not know what he can see in the dim, flickering light, but it does not seem to appease him. "I don't think you're ill," he states eventually. "Do you have trouble sleeping?"

I blink and, calmly but emphatically remove the hand from my body. Potter, unbothered, keeps staring at me questioningly. It is an unprecedented situation – certainly, I have been asked after my welfare and comfort by the Headmaster and Pomfrey at times when it was obvious that I was not in a good physical state, but never had any of my students been concerned about my health.

"That is nothing you should worry about, Potter," I tell him, glad that this time there was no anger in my voice. His prying does not make me angry, to tell the truth. How quaint it is, given that in the years past the mere sight of him could spark rage in me?

"That might be so, Professor, but doesn't change the fact that I do," he throws back with a slight smile. A wave of his wand calls two of the chairs from the pile to us; a more complicated pattern drawn in the air, accompanied by a muttered incantation, transfigures them into comfortable looking armchairs. "Sit…"

I do, torn between indignation and amusement at his treatment of myself. The situation is too absurd and I feel too tired to argue about nothing.

"You aren't sleeping at all, are you?" he asks wryly, plopping down into the upholstery opposite me.

"Potter, this is a topic I might discuss with a medi-witch, were I so inclined. _Not_ a-"

"Friend? Companion? Whatever?"

I wait for the irritation to return, but it does not. Potter is being candid and serious, and I truly do not want to snap at him now. I offered him companionship and listening to him (if not answering his questions) and I do not intend to upset the fragile balance we have achieved.

That does not help me decide whether I do or do not answer. For the sake of confidence between us I should, but it goes against my very nature, against decades of learnt behaviour and against good sense.

"I do sleep, albeit not very well," I allow. He does not need to ask about nightmares, and the silence feels actually slightly comfortable. How absurd it is that _he_ would understand any aspect of my life. And he does understand a whole disconcerting lot. "It will pass," I state, though without belief. Potter nods.

"It's the season." His eyes are fixed on the wall behind me, his left hand subconsciously rising to trace his scar. "Halloween is near. Tom's throwing a party."

"Are you having visions?" I ask, concerned for him in return. He did not appear distracted in classes, nor have I heard other teachers complaining about his inattentiveness or something of the sort. Also, the ring (which I still keep, with the connection active) has not alerted me to Potter feeling any extreme pain.

He nods.

"From Nagini's point of view still. I only feel echoes of curses when I'm in her. It's not so bad, just… gory. I think Tom's trying to block me out, but… forgot, or didn't realise that I was connected to his familiar, too."

Yes, that is very much like the Dark Lord – stupid mistakes made out of arrogance or ignorance. Had Tom Riddle been a genius rather than just very intelligent, he would have long since overtaken the entire British magical community.

"Do you know what he is planning?" I wonder if he speaks to the Headmaster about these things… though I sincerely doubt it. He has understandably decided that as long as he is excluded from the information the Order gathers, the Order shall be excluded from his news. The rift among the forces opposing the Dark Lord is regrettable, but, as I see it, solely Dumbledore's fault. Potter has tried, repeatedly, far more patiently than many would be able to, to be accepted into the Order, if not as a member, at least as an observer.

"I'm fairly certain he wants Hogsmeade. There are indications that he's going to use the vampires."

"Shit," I say before I can stop myself. Vampires are almost as frightening as werewolves to the normal wizard. It truth, vampires are far more dangerous, but they tend to live without the magical society, and the lack of their tangible presence in the every-day wizarding life makes them overlooked and, consequently, underestimated.

"Yeah," Potter agrees with me, giving me a crooked humourless smile. "I'd say we have to alert the authorities, but I would get accused either of being an attention-seeker and lying, or of collaborating with the Death Eaters."

The pounding in my head intensifies, and I admit to myself that it does hurt now.

"I will inform the Headmaster, Potter. This is not something you can keep to yourself-"

"I realise that. I also realise that we should inform the people in the village, give them a chance to get the Hell out of there. In an ideal case Hogwarts would offer sanctuary, but I don't see it happening…"

"There is a chance." No one can be as stupid as to ignore Potter's warning, after he had been correct repeatedly, can they? After all, Dumbledore has heeded his warning about the werewolves. "Unless there is a more reliable source of information, which I, frankly, doubt, the Order will be there."

Potter scoffs and looks me straight in the eye, for the first time this evening forming a connection of sorts. There is angry fire in his green eyes, _beautifully alive_.

"The Order? You mean the little club that couldn't dispatch a few dementors? Those idiots can't face off against vampires! They couldn't face off against werewolves either, and this is going to be worse! Voldemort's starving them – they'll go into bloodlust the second he sets them free!"

I shudder when he voices the Dark Lord's name, and again when he mentions vampires in bloodlust. I have seen one, once. A group of them would be… likely worse than the Flyte and Barker Manufactory. I completely agree with his less than kind assessment of Dumbledore's vigilante morons, but do not see what could be done. They should have done as Potter had advised them – learn to shoot. The same silver that worked back in August would work now.

Unfortunately, as the third Rosetta stone supposedly explains, wizards are stupid.

"There is nothing else you can do, Potter. Sometimes-"

"That's a fucking push-over attitude!" Potter snarls at me. "I bet that's what half of the people with Dark Marks thought when they took them – 'there's nothing we can do'. That's what Pettigrew thought when Voldemort ordered him to betray my parents. There's nothing poor little Peter can do…" I am struck with the sudden ferocity in the boy. I have not seen him this angry… ever. The childish wrath at being called something he disliked or disparaging of his parents is nothing compared to this. This is powerful; he saturates the atmosphere of the room with his emotions and magic. It is breath-taking. "If _I_ thought like that," Potter continues in a deadly, flowing sibilant whisper, "I would have rolled over and died for Voldemort in my first year… or joined him when he offered." I wince at the name again, but overall am too transfixed to do anything else. This is a true Dark Lord in front of me, capable of passion more terrible than whatever Riddle has nightmares about.

I do not notice that I have moved before I find myself kneeling on the floor in front of him. Merlin and Morgana, not again! Not another man I would feel the need to prostrate myself for! Not another wizard to submit myself to…

I try to stand up, but Potter's fingers are suddenly tangled in my hair, my head rests on his leg and he does not want me to move away. I realise another difference between him and V- Riddle. Potter's anger does not scare me – it _attracts_ me (hence that subconscious reaction). He is looking down at me; his thumb brushing lightly against the edge of my jawbone. If this is how he enticed Draco, there is no surprise about _his_ devotion.

"I didn't want to get mad. I'm sorry," Potter says quietly. "I just hate when people give in and when they expect me to solve all their problems and when they patronise me and don't tell me things I need to know… Sorry."

I shake my head, faintly, as much as his grip allows me. I should be struggling to get away, but, Lares and Penates, this is nice. I was never a tactile person, so this sudden appreciation – craving even – of touch leaves me thoroughly baffled.

"I think I figured out what I told you when I got totalled," he continues completely off-topic, venturing into territory that makes me uncomfortable, but I feel too exhausted to move away, to shelter myself or run from the confrontation. Boneless. "I told you about Sirius, didn't I?"

My lack of response appears to be as good as admission. Yes, he told me about Black. I do see a slightly less biased picture of the man as he was at the time of his death, but it neither lessens my animosity towards his memory, nor is it the reason why Potter and I… _disagreed_.

"That wasn't the problem?" he asks and sighs when I close my eyes. "I've sort of hoped that I haven't told you about Remus. It's a bit of a sore point." Yes, I believe that. It is a sore point for me as well, and I too would have been more content had the topic never come up. "You don't… don't _think less_ of me for considering a man _that way_, do you?" _That way_, indeed. How naively childish. How petty would it be of me to refuse him solace simply because of his sexual preference (which was never established, moreover)? That he chose 'Lupin' makes it obvious that his taste is rather questionable, but still not enough for a discord of the proportions we had.

"Potter, I was a Death Eater for eighteen years. There is very little about consensual sexual practices that can truly disgust me."

"That is not what I asked you about," he replies, unmoved by my clinical approach yet with slight trepidation – as if afraid that I avoided answering his question because he would not like my answer.

"Homophobia from me would be hypocritical, Potter," I say wearily, not really caring that I told him more than strictly necessary. I have not exactly admitted to anything particular, just as he had not, but the basics are there. On the other hand, I might have given him a hope for his notion of a… an _affair_ between us. It is all the more dangerous now than it was two weeks ago, because I have since discovered something in him that _does_ attract me.

"Good," Potter says simply, removes myself from his person (with the same astounding gentleness as he displayed the first night of the full moon in Grimmauld Place) and stands up. "Go to bed, Professor. Take Dreamless Sleep or something. Merlin knows you need it."

Moments later he is gone. _Minutes_ later, back in my quarters, I realise that he has twisted out of answering the most important question of all that I gave him: 'what can he do'?


	18. The Headmaster

A/N: Merry Christmas today to all those who celebrate today, and tomorrow to those who celebrate tomorrow. Also, thank you for your response to the last chapter. I have yet to reach the literary heights of a hundred of reviews per chapter, but every single one of them is a heart-warming dose of motivation.  
Read, enjoy, review.  
Brynn 

x

The Headmaster 

x

The Headmaster has accepted the report on Potter's visions with calmness that very nearly made me doubt the inclusion of the Order in the upcoming battle – honestly, what kind of leader would be as cold as a fish upon the realisation that his people were going to be faced with a (likely entire) tribe of blood-lusting vampires?

Potter could not specify the date and time, therefore the volunteers were assigned shifts. There are four pairs of guards stationed in the village at any time of day. I, myself, do not take part, saddled with teaching little brats during the day, correcting and marking essays and tests until the late evening and attempting to sleep at least a few hours a day. The nightmares are bad, but I struggle against developing insomnia – I have been through that once and I was physically stronger back then. I cannot afford to weaken myself to the point of utter exhaustion… not now.

The amount of coffee I drink at breakfast is indecent, garnering disapproving scowls from Minerva (who cannot pass up such a golden opportunity), Pomfrey (whose mission it is to aggravate me by trying to preserve my mortal shell in working order) and Viridian (who simply considers the brew a travesty). Potter is absent, to my consternation. I shudder to imagine what might be going through his head – what he might be planning. I cannot stop thinking of the one unanswered question.

"Gods, Severus!" Viridian exclaims when I reach for the jug to pour myself another cup. "You must have a hangover the size of the Giant Squid!"

The comment is found very amusing throughout the entire staff table, since the man did not consider the matter personal and thought it fit to speak as loudly as possible without actually yelling. Had it been accurate I would have glared at him but, as it is, I do not deem it worth shifting my attention away from the bitter dose of caffeine and reality.

"Vindictus!" Vector admonishes from several seats over. I do not have to look up to know that the closest ends of students' tables are abuzz with the reactions to the statement. The admiration I held for Viridian's cutting remarks becomes greatly lessened.

"What?" the man says defensively and turns to Vector. "It's true! Have you seen the amount of the swill he actually drank?" I get the distinct feeling that Viridian is the one with hangover and this is his way of getting even with the world. I would rather it did not involve me, but contend myself with ignoring the whole matter while the staff and students alike chatter away. It is, all in all, an exciting start to an exciting day.

x

Potter does not attend my class. I am inclined to stalk straight to the Gryffindor Tower and have words with him, but then I think that a detour to the hospital wing might be prudent first, and in the end decide to wait until dinner.

By the time the tables fill with food, Minerva is furious like a caged Cornish Pixie. Her face is ashen white, her posture rigid and her jaw locked so tight that I am surprised she manages to chew her broccoli. Listening to my colleagues uncovers the reason for her mood and, at the same time, provides me with information without my having to traipse there and back through the castle.

"He didn't bother to attend without so much as by your leave! Even that tamed Slytherin of his was there…" I blink. 'Tamed Slytherin?' _Draco_ Minerva is in for a nasty surprise in the near future if she believes Draco tamed. However… Potter was supposed to have Transfiguration before Potions. I am not sure whether he had anything before that, but I doubt it…

"He wasn't in my class, either," Flitwick announces nervously. "I just assumed something happened in Potions…" These days the teachers do not even bother to find out the reason _why_ their students are absent from their classes. For all Flitwick knew, Potter could have been dead.

For all I know – and I know a fair lot, especially about that boy – Potter might be dead very soon. If he is doing what I fear he is doing…

"Weasley, Granger and Malfoy were all present in my class," Minerva adds as an afterthought. I look over the tables. Potter is nowhere to be seen (which is not to say that he is not in the Hall), but the other two thirds of the Golden Trio are lumped up with Longbottom, Ginevra and Finnigan. Draco is talking to Zabini, with Greengrass sandwiched between them.

"The last the boy was seen was well before breakfast. He had requested a bottle of milk and two apples from the house elves." This marginally helpful information is added by Pomona, who absently squashes her greens with her fork. So Potter is missing since early morning, and it starts bothering them _now_. I wish it would surprise me, but, frankly, it does not.

I excuse myself from the table and stride from the room, before I lose the grip on my temper and curse one of the damned idiots.

x

Potter does not appear on Monday or Tuesday, but Dumbledore, Minerva, Flitwick, Viridian, Pomona, Pomfrey and myself each receive a little note informing us that he is taking several days off school and in the case he does return he ought to be back by weekend. Needless to say, my mood is atrocious and I positively terrorise the students. The staff steers clear of me, muttering disparaging comments just loud enough for me to hear.

I think of Potter far more than I should. I wonder where he is, what he is doing and whether he is going to return. I cannot even delude myself into believing that I do not care. I also cannot be truly resentful of his flight – my anger stems only from concern and frustration, because I understand why he went away… I would have probably been surprised if he returned, were it not for his personal belongings being left in the Gryffindor Tower – and information I gleaned by listening to the 'distraught and frightened' Order members bemoaning the Golden Boy's absence at the dinner table.

The only one more vocal about Potter's little jaunt is Granger – complaining about the boy missing classes and loudly disclaiming that he would not be allowed to borrow her notes. I have ever doubted Potter's competence in choosing his companions… Granger does have several redeeming qualities, but it escapes me how someone can stand her for longer periods of time.

I do not suffer similar indignation, for I have a very good idea about Potter's intentions – whatever he is doing now is the answer to the question he had avoided answering before. He is _Saviouring_, as they all wanted him to. They have no right to complain…

I dislike being defensive on Potter's behalf, which serves to worsen my mood and consequently my nightmares. I take Dreamless Sleep, which makes me hebetudinous in the morning and makes me drink even more coffee than usual.

It is Wednesday afternoon when something changes. The change is rather loud, signified by screeching outrage of my less favourite Gryffindor. I am entering the staff room when the sound penetrates my ears. I do not feel like I have deserved such torture…

"…you can't condone this, Albus! It is theft! I don't care he's one of my Gryffindors! It's a shame on the entire House-"

I blink, walking around the group of seated teachers. I reach my armchair unnoticed, since everyone is gaping at the frothing Minerva. Dumbledore lifts his hand to stop the barrage, though I suspect the reason for the following silence is a non-verbal spell rather than the gesture.

"You are quite mistaken, my dear," the Headmaster says gently. Minerva opens her mouth, but no sound comes from it. She scowls at the old man, jaw locked, lips pursed into a thin, colourless line somewhat reminiscent of the Dark Lord. "Harry may have entered my office without permission – which raises an altogether different question of how he was capable of such a feat, especially since my wards did not inform me of his presence…" He falls silent for a few moments. No one dares speak up, afraid of breaking the old man's concentration. It turns out to be in vain, for when he speaks again, it is apparent that he is still bemused by the occurrence. I make a mental note to interrogate Potter about how he got through the supposedly most sturdy wards in existence without being detected. "Harry even did me the courtesy of informing me that he has taken the sword-"

Finally, I have an idea about what made Minerva fly into rage. If I read the hints correctly, Potter has taken a sword from the Headmaster's office – the _Gryffindor's sword_. Most fitting for the whelp.

"But, Albus…" Pomona tries to protest in Minerva's stead. It is pathetic of the woman to act like Minerva's shadow – a mere supporter, _minion_. Taken away from her plants, she submits to the nearest forceful personality… like a typical Hufflepuff.

"According to Hogwarts: A History," Oglethorpe speaks and, despite her quiet voice, garners everybody's attention, "the Founder's artefacts become property of their chosen wielder for the period of his or her life."

That is, admittedly, a surprise. I have once read the book, but there was little in it that I retained, it being a singularly dry read. Obviously, the majority of the people around the table were not aware of this either.

"Is that true?" Flitwick pipes up.

The Headmaster nods gravely, though not at all bothered by the loss of the sword. I guess his consternation is due to Potter's absence alone.

"Harry clearly did not know that when he had left the Gryffindor's sword with me. I have kept it for him until such a time that he needed it again. The method of reclaiming it is a tad unorthodox, I admit, but it has been _Harry's_ sword from the moment he pulled it out of the Sorting Hat."

The staff begins chattering like students at the Welcoming Feast. Minerva's voice is returned and she immediately jumps down the Headmaster's throat for what she considers undignified treatment. I suspect Dumbledore merely intended to save his ear-drums.

Since it is apparent that this bunch of squabbling dunderheads is not currently capable of meaningful discussion, not to speak about resolving issues about the course of the academic process, I take my leave.

Pinned to the door of my office, disguised by a case-specific Notice-me-not Charm, is another note from Potter.

x

On Thursday I wake with an annual chilling feeling of foreboding. Traditionally the day is spent by preparing for the Halloween Feast, but the unusual stillness permeating the corridors and the subduedness of the student body indicate that this year there is not going to be a very festive mood.

When at quarter past eleven the awaited knock on my office door has still not sounded, I resign. Potter is obviously not coming even for the Dark Arts lesson. I am fairly certain – as opposed to practically everybody else save perhaps Draco (who is nowhere near as upset as I would expect him to be) – that the boy is hiding somewhere in Hogsmeade. The Order members stationed there have reported that the majority of the permanent residents have left and the shops were closed. The few who remained were meeting in the evening in The Three Broomsticks – the only establishment still open.

Portkeys landing straight in the Hogwarts Entrance Hall were distributed to those people and a permanent rotation of two trained wizards guards the destination twenty-four hours a day, to ensure that the safety measures will not be exploited by the other side.

I survive a double-lesson with the sixth-years sans Potter, glaring at the vacant spot next to Granger more than observing the present students. If some of them notice, none dare remark upon it. The pattern of glaring at Potter's empty spot continues at dinner, but Viridian is much more vocal about it. I briefly consider sticking the fork in my left hand into his eye, but then decide that he might be useful in the battle I do not doubt is coming up.

The darkness falls slowly; the sky goes through a range of colours the most significant of which is bright crimson that paints the dining students in a decidedly morbid light. It seems as though the night was so slow in coming simply to prolong the wait. I notice Minerva's sleeves bunch up strangely around her upper arms, which signifies that under her robe she is wearing full battle gear. It is heartening to know that Gryffindor is not synonymous with stupidity, only related.

A closer, more thorough inspection reveals that several teachers carry different parts of armour, although concealed by their regular garments, most likely in a pitiful effort to not let the students know that anything is amiss and stave off panic. However, judging by the very determined group of mixed Houses forming at the Gryffindor table around the two present thirds of the Golden Trio, the effort is superfluous. The remnants of the so-called Dumbledore's Army, induced with a few of the older Slytherins, have obviously caught on.

I, contrary to myself, do believe that it was not Potter who warned them.

It is much to my surprise that the group raises close to the end of the feast (which, while not festive, is no less opulent than any other year), before Dumbledore has had a chance to speak to the students. They leave, unhindered by the staff or prefects (most of which are part of the group, anyway).

"Albus?" Minerva asks wearily.

"There is nothing we can do," the Headmaster replies with sadness. "We might need all the help we can get."

Several people at the table, including myself, blanch. It is inconceivable to me that Dumbledore, the one person whom hundreds of parents entrusted their children to with firm belief that he would protect them better than they could, is willing to let them go into battle against blood-lusting vampires.

I have doubted the man before, but at this moment I experience a paradigm shift. I have considered myself a dissident, but now I find myself – mentally – in a position equal to Potter's. We have become renegades of renegades – apostates of the vigilante Order. My wand is no more at Dumbledore's command.

There must be some kind of information network established among the students, judging by how different groups from different years and different Houses trickle out of the Hall, not as randomly as they wished it to appear. It is an Outstanding performance for eleven to eighteen-year-olds, though. I doubt anyone but the Headmaster and myself noticed it. The room empties while the staff nibbles at their food, unable to stomach much due to nerves.

"Albus?" Minerva asks again, when the last strategically left-behind seventh-year slips through the door.

"I believe it's time."

He stands and leads his line of fighters out, like a flock of goslings following mother goose. I find the metaphorical sense characteristic. We walk through the Entrance Hall, past the guard consisting currently of two Aurors – Shacklebolt and some newbie who has been accepted into the Order but not introduced yet. Both wear silvered steel chokers – a standard gear for any hostile situations including vampires. Ironic, how nobody bothered to provide the Order members with them.

I subconsciously rub my throat entering the chilly evening air. The atmosphere is dry, without a hope for rain. It is going to be a clear, starry night… not that it would be too helpful. I briefly meet Oglethorpe's eyes. She looks dead, terrified completely numb. I sidle closer to her and catch her shoulder.

"Go back," I mutter. She stares at me as if I told her to jump of the Astronomy Tower. I glare at her and sneer. "Do you have any fighting experience?"

She tries to speak, but her voice fails. She shakes her head.

"Go and help Pomfrey and Delacour. You will be no help out there."

She hesitates for a moment, but the still open gates of the castle draw her eyes. She nods frantically and runs into the relative safety, afraid that someone might notice and call her back.

I set out down the mud path, catching up to the group of teachers turned fighters, wishing that somebody was here to cover my back… even Potter would be better than these scarecrows.

x

Hogsmeade looks empty, with the notable exception of The Three Broomsticks. The glow from the windows of the tavern paints rectangles on the adjacent streets, but otherwise does nothing to dispel the darkness. Human eyes are blinded by it, unable to see through deeper shadows, which would be more transparent in complete darkness. Stars are only beginning to appear; the smattering of them serves as a decoration rather than a source of light.

"Halt!"

I scoff at the idiocy of these people. If we were vampires, calling out would not stop us – it would reveal their position.

"You hold your gob shut, Peterson!" Moody growls from the niche of a nearby building. "If it wasn't Albus, you'd be dead." He limps out, an uglier shadow than those surrounding him, with a single glowing-blue eye, which wasn't shining from the darkness before, presumably because he was looking _through_ the brim of his hat. "Aye, lads, come 'ere and get your last swig. Tomorrow there'll be less o'us again."

He sniffs, which might be his way of testing the air just as well as an expression of opinion. Moody is not a person easy to understand – people mostly try to steer clear of him, anyway. He is about as social as myself.

"Alastor," the Headmaster speaks reproachfully upon catching sight of the bottle in Peterson's hands, "the last we need at a time like this is to imbibe. We must remain focused and-"

"Nonsense, Albus," the old Auror growls. He grabs the bottle from his flunky's embrace and thrusts it at Viridian. "A little gulp of life won't kill nobody here today. If someone's dead by dawn, it won't be from spirits."

Several of the dusk-obscured forms around me shudder at the not particularly veiled implication. How fitting is this macabre atmosphere on a day that celebrates death? The walk from the gates of the castle to the centre of Hogsmeade might as well have been a funeral march.

Suddenly, as if there has been something blocking my thinking before, a link between two facts appears and I am hit with a realisation: Potter is still here. An irrational part of me rejoices, as if there was something pulling at me and screaming in my ears that with Potter, his four days of preparation, his ingeniousness and ruthlessness, we just might have a chance… but at the same time I feel cold, terrified that I shall survive this night while he would not. I truly, whole-heartedly wish he was back at the castle, ensconced in the relative safety of the wards.

It seems that Dumbledore, piqued by his Defence teacher taking a swig from the proffered alcohol before passing it onto Flitwick, who helps himself without hesitation, does have a congruous answer, but he never gets the chance to deliver it.

A flock of bats shoots from the nearest grove, passes so closely above the roofs of the houses that several less lucky of them hit the chimneys and splatter themselves over thatch and slate, and zoom straight at us. I throw up a hasty Shield Charm. I suspect that Minerva's screech succeeds in murdering several of the sound-sensitive creatures in mid-flight. Flitwick stands still, not truly bothered by them, while Dumbledore has to fend off several at the same time, only managing in entangling them in his hair and beard. When the main body of the flock passes and disappears into the night, he blasts them off together with chunks of glowing white material. In other circumstances I might have found it hilarious – the venerable Headmaster struggling against the equivalent of a Bat Bogey Hex, only with the exclusion of secretions.

The chill intensifies, penetrating my bones.

It gradually becomes more and more familiar…

"Dementors!" Someone shouts my thought. It might have been the Peterson idiot – not many here are stupid enough to shout at the top of their voice. Moody lets out an animalistic growl, slams the moron's head into a nearby wall, knocking him out cold, and pushes him through a random door. I very much doubt that being inside a house would protect him in any way, but at least his silence does not increase our danger.

"Alastor-"

"What preparations have you made for this battle, Albus?" the old Auror asks, unperturbed. The Headmaster blinks.

"I have called the Order-"

"Not who you called, Albus. Which additional protections have you installed? Where have you put traps? Do you have outposts? How are they shielded? What is your strategy against vampires? And which clan is it?"

From Moody's manner it is obvious that he does not expect an answer to any of his questions. My eyes meet his fulgent one and he gives me a hideous grin. The staff flocks around the silent Headmaster, who can truthfully only admit that he has made no preparations at all, while Moody's party (which I suspect consist mostly of Aurors – retired, off work and cadets) forms two tight lines and cuts off two of the three streets meeting in front of The Three Broomsticks.

"According to my information, it'd be a clan of neolilithians," Moody speaks when it is obvious that Dumbledore has nothing to add. "I've not heard the name before, so it's likely the little buggers schismatised off some of the bigger clans. Can't expect Riddle to pick up more than the trash…"

I notice that the tension around me seems to slightly ease and go over his statement again in my head. My respect for Moody rises another notch – everyone has heard stories about him leading teams to victory despite unlikely odds, but I personally have never seen these leadership skills in the man before. He complains and accuses and exasperates his neighbourhood with his paranoia, but this is the first time that I experience Moody giving reassurance. Needless to say, he does it so skilfully that hardly anyone takes note of it, whereas almost everyone subconsciously accepts it.

I sidle up to him and stand slightly to the side. I am not foolish enough to relinquish the grip on my wand, and he follows my movement closely, gouging how much of a threat to him I present. Eventually, he calms down enough for me to risk approaching yet closer.

"Who are they really?" I whisper. My voice does not carry enough to reach the teachers, who – like chickens – huddle together trying to fit under Dumbledore's wings.

Moody snickers.

"They are the band that looted the British National Museum three weeks ago. Bloody dangerous fuckers."

It is then as I suspected.

"Do we stand a chance?"

He snickers again, takes a swig from his flask, and grins at me.

"Would I be here if we didn't, Snape?"

I wonder. Would he? He was in all those places where he had lost limbs and gained scars. He spent nigh ten months imprisoned in his own trunk while a junior Death Eater and Azkaban convict pranced about, cast Unforgivables on students and plotted the Dark Lord's return (successfully executed, in the end). On the other hand, after all these things he still stands here, alive and battle-ready.

"Don't mistake me for one of the valiant Gryffindor lads, Snape. If I didn't think I'm getting' to my bed in the mornin', you wouldn't find me dead near this place." A third highly disturbing grin is bestowed upon me when it is apparent that I do not comprehend why he has such faith in his survival. "I've been here for days and most of the lads and gals too. We've rigged all that can be rigged and there's stuff in the ground 'round the town that would get place of honour in _your_ lab." It is this very moment when I realise that Moody, improbable as it is, _likes me_. He has decided that I am to be trusted after my cover with the Death Eaters was blown, but it never occurred to me that the man actually picked his favourites from the Order. It is a dubious honour… but I take it in the spirit in which it is given. Namely, I use it to glean more information.

I ask the one thing that bothers me most.

"Have you seen Potter?"

Moody's heavily scarred face stretches in the first wide, heart-felt smile I have ever seen him give.

"That lil' bugger," he says, proud like a parent whose child receives their first Hogwarts letter. "If there were more like him… there's no time to chat now, lad. Ask me later. But, Merlin's wrinkly arse, do I have stuff to brag about…"

I can definitely believe that. I give him a curt nod and make my way back to the disorganised huddle of teachers, shrouded in shadows. As far as I can tell, my brief absence went unnoticed.


	19. Vampires

A/N: Thank you, my reviewers, for taking a moment off from opening your presents and sending feedback! Happy and Successful New Year to you all!  
Brynn

x

Vampires 

x

We wait for what feels like hours. The dementors converge slowly, advancing from all sides. The temperature drops minute by minute and the cold is impossible to drive away with warming charms. They are still out of sight, but effectively manage to dissolve all traces of morale from the Order members, who have all since arrived through Madam Rosmerta's Floo.

I sneer at a supremely indecent couple entangled together near the niche I have chosen to lurk in and drape my cloak closer around me.

I positively despise waiting.

I do not carry a watch, therefore I have no idea what the time is when the attack starts. We have ample warning – a flock of owls flees from the forest. They scatter in all directions, hurrying away from here like all intelligent beings would. Wizards and witches in the streets of Hogsmeade startle, several of them casting shields or hexes in reflex.

Venison breaks the line of the trees, running past the outskirts of the village through fields, lawns and meadows to the hills on the edge of the horizon. Patroni are invoked around me and sent down all three of the muddy roads. The chill lessens and I let go of my cloak. This time the warming charm works. I discard the heavy billowing garment to prevent it from impairing my movement. It will not make a difference if they get to us, but…

"Close ranks!" Moody orders. He does not yell, but his people obey instantly. Several of the Order members on the other side of the square imitate them. Screeches sound from less distance than I have expected and the cold abruptly returns. I shudder and stare into the blackness, wondering if I shall even see them coming before they are here.

It makes sense to use vampires and dementors in a joint attack – they are complementary species, one feasting on the physical, the other on the metaphysical part of humans – although I, personally, consider it a shameless waste of resources. Either the Dark Lord suffers greatly from the loss of the majority of his tactical team in the July Battle of Hogwarts, or he cannot control his new minions as well as it would be desired.

"Light!"

Several houses burst into flame. Orange glow fills the streets. The blackness becomes a burning twilight. It is, admittedly, an _ingenious_ plan – the advantage vampires and dementors have on humans when it comes to night-vision is countered. I doubt very much that the owners of the buildings have consented to it, but Dumbledore will deal with their complaints (in the case he survives the battle) and I will be provided a chance to laugh into his face (metaphorically, of course).

The first wave of the attack is slowed by the booby traps. They explode in little puffs of smoke and dispatch the one who sets them off within seconds. Snipers shoot from the not burning roofs, little bullets that burst into a shower of tiny shards and destroy their targets. They do not even need to have a particularly good aim.

"Jones, send the signal!"

A blow of a horn for a moment virtually freezes the scene, with the exception of the advancing horde, who do not react at all rationally. Potter has been, apparently, correct also in this instance – the Dark Lord has starved the vampires; they are so deep into bloodlust that their self-preservation instincts have been reduced to nothing.

No sooner the horn falls silent, when the windowpanes begin to rattle. From where I am posted I cannot see what is happening, but it sounds like a stampede. A moment later I am proved spot on – a herd of cows breaks a low plank fence of mostly decorative nature and bursts into the street. They run to meet the vampires, away from the fire.

Those coming from that direction are easily run over, stomped into the ground – which is not to say that they are harmless anymore. With their regenerative skills, they would be rising from the dust within minutes… if they are given that kind of time. Their comrades abandon their mission and run after the herd. Each captured animal struggles against three or five hunger-crazed beasts, before being subdued and torn into shreds.

I do not watch. I have had my share of morbid scenes and feel no compulsion to add 'another snapshot to my nightmare-inducing scrapbook of memories', as Regulus used to call them in that fake droll voice that made me want to keep him under a Cruciatus until he lost the humour.

The pre-installed defences, though much more efficient than I expected, are broken at that point. The enemy forces have not been decimated, but they are reduced to a number I believe could be defeated by an organised force. Moody's lines fire salve after salve of spells, woefully Light, but at least co-ordinated. The rest of the head-less chickens run around, attempting to attack the half-sated or mentally stronger vampires (those who have not succumbed to their hunger) with random spells.

Although I probably should not criticise, since I have not bothered to do anything but observe yet. I hesitate to compromise my position.

"Run!" someone from the Order's side of the square shouts and immediately follows their advice, not realising that we are surrounded – there is nowhere to run.

"They're back!"

"Dementors!"

The fear must have been mind-numbing for these people not to realise that their Patroni have been destroyed when the cold returned. They should have expected them. In spite of my skepticism, it is hard to believe.

"Pathetic!"

I turn to see who expressed my opinion so concisely and meet a pair of crimson eyes. The Dark Lord. For a second I forget to breath. The person laughs and, almost absently, beheads the nearest defender, wielding a two-handed longsword easily with one hand. Not the Dark Lord, then… he would not lower himself to using mundane weapons… He grins, shaking his head to get long dark hair out of his face. If I remember correctly, he is the 'Prince'. There would be the 'General', the 'First Lord' and the 'Second Lord' in line for the command. All four of them would have to be destroyed for the rest to scatter.

Trouble is that the Prince is coming through what was supposed to be the line of defence with appalling ease. Perhaps sending dementors with the vampires was not a waste after all.

I step away from the wall. I need space to dodge. I am an idiot. I should join Moody's line, not go to meet the shredder. Perhaps I am influenced by the atmosphere. There is no excuse. It is insanity. I should have taken Moody's offer of a drink. Maybe that would have made me think more rationally.

The Prince – I refuse to contemplate the parallels – licks his lips and moves the sword in a vaguely inviting way. He is still several houses away from me, but the distance means little to creatures with superhuman speed.

I flinch when an oil lamp mere feet to my right explodes. More houses have caught on fire and Hogsmeade is one large inferno. The Prince is intercepted by a trio of Order members, who put up a rather fierce fight, but the vampire catches one of them and uses him as a shield against the hexes. They do not stand a chance.

I do not stand one… probably… I invoke a spell I have never used in a real battle situation. The air around me is warped into a vortex. Thin stripes of white, pinkish ribbons, designed to cut through flesh and bone, swirl around me. Never mind Dumbledore or Moody. It is a spell as Dark as they come, but it might just keep me alive.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A huge silver shape bounds past me unbothered by my drastic measure designed specifically against physical body. I have to flatten myself against the wood-faced wall. The ribbons hew a hole through it before I lose the grip on the charm and it fails. The dementors, faces with the Patronus, flee in what fairly resembles panic. There is only one person with a spiritual guardian whose mere presence induces that kind of fear in the Dark creatures.

A looming shadow is the only warning I have – I swiftly move and narrowly avoid the blade the slices through the remains of the wooden panelling. I duck and thrust myself to the side in quick succession. The first cut misses me; the second opens the side of my robe, though it does not reach skin. I am as good as dead. He does not give me time to cast a shield or transfigure a weapon, not that either would help me much.

The gravel gives away under my feet and I crash into the ground, which saves me from the next attack, but lands me, quite literally, in a corner. It strikes me suddenly that I never imagined it like this. Not that I fantasised about my death consistently, but at this moment it seems so unexpected… there was no suspense to lead up to it, and the warning did not have enough time to sink in. I take a deeper breath and steel myself, staring into those Dark Lordish red eyes.

He looks a lot like I used to, as a child, imagine the Devil to look: black clothing with golden armour glinting from underneath it, black hair, blazing scarlet eyes, standing there enveloped in flames…

I blink, surprised to have been given the time to do so. He is _not_ in fact _surrounded_ by flames… he is being _consumed_ by them. He shrieks. The sword falls on the road with a dull thud. Tiny bits of smouldering black fabric fly away from him and he leans backwards, his back involuntarily arching due to the pain. Finally, one of the prudes on the 'side of Light' 'lowered themselves' to using a Dark spell.

"Shields, Professor!" a familiar voice barks. It penetrates my numbness and restarts my shock-frozen brain. I snap into action.

Potter is a dark blur on the edge of my vision, while I work on wrapping myself in a cocoon of ominous silvery-pink tendrils, tranquil for the time being, but ready to _snap_ into action at a moment's notice. Is it not ironic, how Potter has saved me from a death he would have been the indirect cause of? Then again, I suspect that is routine for him.

The breached line of the Order of the Phoenix has reassembled following the unexpected retreat of the vampires. Sated by the cow blood, the creatures are not nearly desperate enough to keep on fighting without leadership and motivation, especially immediately after bearing witness to their Prince's untimely demise. They might come back, if they are capable of spontaneously choosing someone to fill in the post of the Second Lord, since the chain of command has just moved up. The worst danger presently is the General, especially since we do not know which wing he leads. He might turn up anywhere anytime. His fighting skills would be comparable to the Prince's…

"Good job!" Moody shouts over the noise of the battle. "That was the Second Lord!"

It is likely that the division coming up the third road would be lead by the First Lord, which still leaves the matter of the General open. I cross the square to the line of Aurors that has yet to deal with any of the vampire nobles.

The ribbons around me flurry with anticipation of danger and I duck around a corner. Through the place where I stood flies a dagger and embeds itself in the chest of an old woman with a missing eye. She goes down and everyone to the left of her takes half a step right to fill in the empty spot. The callousness is reminiscent of Death Eaters, but the co-ordination is not. Moody must have trained them specifically for this battle; he has done a superb job of it. They do hold their own well.

The snipers on the roofs of the houses to the left and to the right from where the line of ex-Aurors blocks the street fire simultaneously, targeting figures that stand close together to save ammunition and ensure that they hit _something_. The destruction they wage on the enemy's forces is considerable, even though vampires are notoriously hard to kill. Missing half of their chest cavity or their heads is something they apparently do not survive.

One of the exploding bullets destroys one of them completely and obliterates the forearm of a female next to him. She tacitly looks down and grits her teeth. Within seconds the stump lengthens and a new hand grows out of it. She cannot recreate her sleeve, though, and her skin, criss-crossed with black lines, is bare for all to see.

"That's the General! The General is the woman!" somebody calls. The female throws off her cape in response and walks forth, displaying leather armour lined with symbols. Spells splatter against it without leaving a mark, Light and Dark alike. The only thing that seems to get to her are the bullets, but she is watching out for them now.

I kneel on the ground to the body of the one-eyed witch and levitate the dagger out of her body. It is an ugly piece of magic, deadly to target as well as to anyone foolish enough to attempt to touch it, bound to its original wielder. I consider flinging it back at the General, seeing if she is fast enough to avoid that, but I have neither the skill, nor the time.

One of the snipers gurgles and slides off the roof. There is nothing to be done for him anymore. The chill of dementors returns once again. Potter's Patronus must have faltered. If we do not finish this quickly, they will defeat us.

The air around me begins to move again, wind picking up, ribbons swirling. The General stops abruptly and looks straight at me. An inhuman leer stretches her face and bares two lines of sharpened white teeth. I think I have just made myself the main target. Potter must be rubbing off on me…

"Yah…" she says in a voice deeper than I would expect from a female and points at me. "I challenge yah to duel!"

After the close encounter with the Prince, which feels like moments ago, even though it just as well may be fifteen minutes, I do not wish for another close brush with death. I do not particularly care that I would be seen as a coward… as long as I do remain alive to be seen as anything. I shake my head in refusal. She grimaces.

"Pas-hetic!"

At an unspoken order, all vampires aim their weapons at me. Some go down under the casting from the Aurors, who do not take a break just because the General thinks more of her pride than of the success of her mission, but there are still too many… I stand a better chance against only the General than against a third of the clan.

I nod.

She gestures her minions to fall back. When the street is empty, with the exception of herself, the Aurors split into two groups and retreat into cover of the houses used by the snipers. They do not relax, though, tensely waiting for a call from above them to resume their positions at a moment's notice.

"Weapons?" the General inquires with a smirk that reminds me of Lucius after Fudge has eaten up one of his 'suggestions'. I do not believe that she would not cheat. Vampire honour is said to be far more on principle than that of witches and wizards, but I have trouble reconciling that myth with the reality of this clan joining the Dark Lord. Nothing is far more dishonourable than that – I would know.

"All that we carry on ourselves and anything we are capable of casting."

She nods, the faintest hint of respect appearing in her expression.

"Very vell, human. Yahr blood vill feed me tonight."

I silently walk forwards. The battle continues on the other two fronts, but I feel as though we were enwombed, completely isolated from the reality. This is how duels are supposed to be, except that it is highly irregular for them to happen in the middle of the battle. With every pace I discard another completely useless thought, concentrating on my Occlumency and controlling the ribbon vortex.

Where are the vampires from? I would estimate Eastern Europe…

If I die now, who will kill the General?

Is the Dark Lord watching right now?

It is a pity that I did not finish dinner…

Will Dumbledore distribute my possessions to his pet Gryffindors, or keep them himself?

Where is Potter?

I am surprised when I feel something. An undefined worry grips me for a moment, before it, too, is lost to the emptiness of Occlumency. I notice that the dementors are once again kept at bay, so it is very likely that Potter is at the very least alive. When the chill does not bother me, I consider having disposed of my cloak long ago a good thing.

"You will follow where your Prince leads," I respond to her threat at the very last moment, aiming to shock her with the information, so that her initial attack would be slower. It is a successful attempts, which changes nothing about the fact that it is only the vortex that saves my life from the blow. She is so fast that I cannot even identify the weapon she chooses.

After several more hits she realises that we are at a kind of a stale-mate, when I cannot truly lash out at her from inside the charm, because I would leave myself open, and she cannot get to me inside.

She bares her teeth in a grimace of intense concentration – this close it is a truly disturbing sight – before she sticks her foot in between the ribbons. It immediately becomes the focus of the charm, being mangled, however, due to the leather armour she wears… oh Merlin… now that I have a part of it practically under my nose it is recognisably _human_ skin… due to the 'armour' her foot is not completely destroyed. More and more ribbons are winding around it and soon there will be none left to avert other parts of her body. I must think of something, and do it fast, otherwise I _will_ become her supper.

The dagger.

I let a thread of my magic follow the traces of the Levitation Charm to the abandoned blade and cradle it, picture the shortest distance between the General's heart and the steely tip, wait a heartbeat for the strain to increase… and release it all. I doubt myself enough to, just in case, duck and ascertain that I do not stand in the dagger's path.

Guided by magic, the blade strikes true. When I look up it is buried deep between the General's ribs. She tries to speak, but her words are incomprehensible. I suspect that she is trying to voice her indignation at my having overcome the obstruction of her armour. It is not myself who has done it – my contribution to her end is only in coming.

"Ignique," I say, with my wand trained on her. The spell should rightly be averted, but the dagger has disrupted the circle of symbols embedded in the human skin and thus allowed more complex magic to penetrate it.

I do not wait until her body is wholly consumed by the flames before I run away from there. The Aurors lock up behind me, creating a united front, but it turns out to be unnecessary. The vampires do not return, not even to recover what little is left of the General.

With my back pressed into a wall, I slide to the ground, breathing hard. The charm falters. I feel tired, not enough to lose consciousness just yet, but I do yearn for a Pepper-up Potion… in fact, even a glass of water would be welcome…

Someone pushes a bottle into my hand and pats my shoulder.

"Good job, Snape, bloody good job."

I look up and meet one of Moody's eyes (the original one). There is a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth, where a missing chunk of flesh disallows him to put his lips together and prevent liquids from leaking. When he speaks, I see that he has recently lost two teeth.

"It's just water, but better than-"

I drink before he even finishes. I do not smell nor taste anything suspicious in the drink, although my senses are not exactly reliable right down. Still, there are dozens of colourless, tasteless and odourless poisons and potions that could be in it… and tomorrow I will likely be really, really angry at myself about accepting it now…

I consider asking about Potter. That is really the only thing I want to know before I take my leave and go fall asleep from this nightmare.

"Help!"

Moody and I turn in the direction of the remains of the Order. It is contingency that the only front where two nobles must be faced tonight is the one made of civilians with barely any fighting skill and experience.

He – for the First Lord is indeed a male – looks not a day older than seventeen. He has short, windswept blond hair, coloured gold and orange by the fires, and, like the Prince, strikes down those who oppose him with a sword. I vaguely recall having seen him before… he had shadowed the Prince, as a personal guard or… a Childe would. His physical appearance and the term 'Childe' are misleading in his case though, as is obvious from the way he hews his path through the defenders, with the peasants like faithful dogs trailing on his tail. A cloaked, hooded person idly sneaks in their wake. They do their utmost to keep themselves hidden, but do so poorly, which fills me with relief, because it means that it is not Potter (who, admittedly, was my first guess). The vampires must know about him and he still lives, which means that he is on their side, but they ignore him, which implies that he does not belong to the clan.

"A Death Eater," I say to Moody, angling my wand inconspicuously so that it points in the right direction. The old Auror nods and dashes off to act on the intelligence.

Which does not help deal with the First Lord… who stops in the middle of the street and angrily bangs on an invisible barrier. People all around the square come to a halt, watch the blonde and listen to him yammer in some Slavic language. It affects the barrier somehow and he wades through it, slow as if he was walking through water. His followers, however, are detained on its other side.

Whoever thought of it had a good idea. Isolating the last Noble gives the Aurors a chance to deal with him swiftly, which should, theoretically, leave the rest of the clan in chaos. Chances are that they would flee…

I groan when Potter strides into the centre of the square, confident as if he was facing a Confounded first-year Hufflepuff. He holds the Gryffindor's sword in one hand, though it is obvious that the weapon is too heavy for him to not use both.

"Vendetta," the vampire states simply. Potter just glances at him dispassionately and stops a few feet short of the barrier. He lowers himself into a stance that is unfit for duelling with wands but seems to work for sword-fighting, and holds the hilt with both hands.

"Vendetta," the First Lord repeats. It is apparent that his grasp of the English language is shaky at best, even worse than the General's was. Although the one word that he speaks should be enough of a warning for Potter – the vampire is fighting to avenge his Sire. The rage he must feel would render him practically berserk…

Potter ostentatiously looks around at the carnage, meets his enemy's eyes and coldly proclaims: "Vendetta."

I groan again. There must be thousands of actions to take that would diffuse this situations, but my brain does not come up with a single one. I would go there and cover Potter's back, even take blows for him (I have done so in the past and was given less thanks than I would receive for it now), but in my current state of physical and magical depletion I would be more of a liability to him than assistance.

Several of the Aurors who are not completely drained yet form a semblance of a rank, but Potter is in their line of fire, so they cannot do anything either. Nobody is as foolish as to go there and risk their life, not now when the battle is almost over.

The vampire is, predictably, the one to strike first. The majority of the spectators wince, but, to everyone's surprise, Potter catches the blow with relative ease. The two bodies move fast – attack – parry – counter-attack – blurred together. Now I remember what Potter told me in August in the Grimmauld Place. He said he thrived on violence. I can see it clearly now. Just like his unexpected burst of non-verbal wandless magic a second before he smashed Lucius's skull… Potter's very being is augmented by the furore. The sweat, the blood, the _death_… it forms an atmosphere in which his blocks dissolve and he becomes stronger and faster and just plain lethal…

I had no idea he knew how to fence. It even takes a while before it is obvious that the vampire has the upper hand. Potter takes a direct hit to the chest by the vampire's free hand and flies over several yards, only stopping when his back hits a lamp post. The impact should have knocked him out, but his magic, gone wild in the heat of the duel, has cushioned it.

"Potter!"

Only when people turn to me I realise that it was me who shouted. Potter rolls over on the ground and… fades from sight. The name, however, attracts attention of someone else. What looks like a pile of rubble in the flickering light moves; tiles and broken pieces of wood make space and a blood-stained someone crawls out from under them. He lifts a wand and squeaks something unintelligible.

Flitwick. Flitwick is alive…

The First Lord moves to dodge the spell, but is not quite fast enough. Flitwick is a Master in his field – his charms are quicker than anyone's. This one brushes the vampire's preferred hand and renders it useless. He switches his sword to the other hand. The advantage for Potter is considerable… or would be, if the boy was not concussed and did not have any broken bones, which I cannot rule out.

Potter drags himself to his feet and cries something that sounds like 'fly away' several times in close succession. I almost believe that he hit his head harder than it looked, when an orange shape virtually falls from the black sky straight into the First Lord's face. A pair of wings stretches wide and an inhuman screech suggests that there was an eye lost in the brief struggle before the bird is thrown to the ground and repeatedly stomped on. I cannot hear the crunches. When the heavy boot descends for the third time, which is a completely irrational, petty act of pique, Potter severs the vampire's head.

The boy lets go of his sword, kneels on the road, picks up the mangled shape of an owl and hugs it to his chest. He hangs his head to conceal what I know to be a moue of pain, something more fundamental than a mere physical hurt, and ignores the flight of the remaining vampires as well as the jubilation and grief of those standing.

It is a victory.


	20. The Martyr

A/N: Wow! The last chapter has scored a record number of reviews and I just want to say it was the greatest present I could have wished for. Thanks.

On that note: several of the reviews (not necessarily to last chapter) have pointed out that getting drunk is out of characted for Severus. I believe he woudn't have done it while acting as a spy, but once his true allegiances were outed, he would have lost direction. You might note that he was virtually instantly relegated to the fringes of the Order – effectively excluded from the planning, decision making and a lot of pertinent intelligence; he has been deemed capable enough of child-minding, which he must detest rather much. I figure that until Harry proved himself as worthwhile to him, Severus would have tried to drown his frustration at his perceived uselessness in alcohol.

The other occasion, when he gets drunk _with_ Harry, happens out of his control. It is something more or less orchestrated by Harry, even if Severus is the one who provides the liquor – Harry once again proves himself to be quite the manipulator, if he decides to exert himself.

**Important! Please, read:** Also, following this chapter, you might want to check out _Metamorphosis at Dawn_. It's accessible through my profile and provides a look at the situation from Harry's point of view – it also kind of spoils the cliffhanger at the end of this chapter, but…

Enjoy. Review.

Brynn

x

The Martyr 

x

I leave Hogsmeade (or what has remained of it) separately from Potter. I do not wait for the fires to be put out and the dead to be collected; I do not even wait to see how many survivors there are to be found among the rum and corpses.

Exhausted, I wish I had one of those nifty emergency Portkeys and did not have to take the trek back to the castle. I doubt there are any vampires or dementors left in the area, but if there was but one, I would not arrive at my destination.

"Severus!" I glance at the person who bothers to notice me. It is Viridian. "Come on, Severus. They've opened the Floo at the Broomsticks."

I vaguely recall that the tavern was one of the buildings on fire, therefore it surprises me to see it standing, albeit a little worse for wear after being the recipient of stray curses. A line is already forming in front of the fireplace. Those incoming – Healers and volunteers – have precedent, but even so it does not seem long to me before I step (and stumble – a proof of my depletion) into the Entrance Hall. The posted guards are absent and there is a wide patterned trail of blood leading from the Portkey destination to the hospital wing.

Just as I drag along to the corridor leading to my dungeons, somebody lands behind me. It is reflex that makes me turn; I am not so far gone as to ignore potential danger. A green-robed young woman, accompanied with a dust-covered man in rags, steers a stretcher along the blood-marked path. For a moment I glimpse the patient – it is Flitwick. It seems that both his legs are broken.

I turn away and adjourn to my chambers with an almost childish hope that when I wake up, the world will be a more reasonable place.

x

Friday begins morbidly like any other day. The half of he staff that is not otherwise incapacitated sits down to breakfast and pretends to eat (with several glaring exceptions of those who in fact do eat). The students ignore their House tables and change the seating as they please.

There are all of them. Not one student is missing from breakfast. Their chattering is unusually subdued, but it is still there. They eat…

Despite the Headmaster's proclamations about the students' plan to become involved in the battle – and 'save' us – the only one of them outside of the castle yesterday was Potter… Potter, who is being hugged to death by crying Draco and Granger at the Slytherin Table, while Ronald gives support to his little red-eyed sister.

Whatever the brats were organised for, it was not fight. Someone out there deserves a laudation for this… A name or five spring up at me as I watch the bane of my existence stroke Draco's hair before releasing him, manly get his back patted by Ronald and kiss Ginevra's forehead.

Well… he is a hero come home from war… temporarily. I need to corner him sometime today. He is bottling up an unhealthy amount of negative emotions, and I do not want to come across him sitting in an abandoned classroom with his wrists slit.

"May I have your attention!" Dumbledore booms, a mask of joviality perfect and twinkle back in his eye. I cannot shake the image of him informing the staff that he expects the students to join a desperate fight against vampires and wishes it to be so.

The minimal noise in the Hall quietens further. The Headmaster smiles benignly, pretending not to notice the dark looks he is being given by the majority of the teachers. Even McAllister glares at him balefully, though I suspect that is because of the blood and earth tracked through the hallways.

"Yesterday a victory was won in Hogsmeade, albeit at a great price. It is my lorn duty to inform you that Professors Sprout, Vector and Burbage have passed on." He pauses to give the information time to sink in. I suppress a scoff – he formulated it as though they were three very old ladies anticipating and welcoming the end after a long and arduous disease. I still fail to grasp why the authority figures tend to attempt and downplay the horrors of the war to the children. Do they not know that this 'sheltering' is one of the reasons why there is a new Dark Lord every other generation, and why there is generally nothing done about it?

I feel that Hogwarts is rather fortunate to only have lost three people altogether, but to the students this constitutes a tragedy of unparalleled grievousness. Most of the Hufflepuffs begin to cry, though they, thankfully, do so silently. "Herbology, Arithmancy and Muggle Studies lessons are cancelled pending further notice, and so are Charms, Ancient Runes and Flying until the respective Professor has recovered. In the meantime, it is up to your teacher's decision whether they do or do not continue with their own lessons."

I glare at the student body, efficiently conveying that I do not intend to allow anyone to slack off simply because three idiots died and three fools got into the way of something bigger than they could handle.

Minerva and Viridian do not indicate any intention of taking an impromptu vacation either. Oglethorpe looks pale, but determined. Quite possibly she has not heard about the outcome of the confrontation before and, although she is stricken, she feels it her duty to teach. Hagrid is not present, just as he was not yesterday, and it occurs to me that I do not have a clue as to why. Trelawney has not been seen outside her Tower since August and it would take nothing short of a goblin rebellion for Binns to take notice.

x

I have the first period free and know that Potter does, also, which is the reason why I wait for him in the Entrance Hall after breakfast. He does not object when I sign to him that I wish to have a conversation, and sends his groupies on to wherever students go when they have no teacher to annoy.

"Morning, Professor."

I notice that he omitted the 'good', which I can only agree with.

"Potter."

I consider going to the Room of Requirement, since it offers incomparably more comfort, but in the end decide that the 'Dark Arts classroom' is much closer to both our current position and the Potions classroom, where I am expected in about an hour.

Potter does not speak for the duration of the walk, but I have learnt to read his facial expressions well enough to know that he is mourning and depressed, though not on the verge of a breakdown. It has to be brought about, and I would rather it happened in controlled environment, but less than an hour is not enough time. I will have to persuade him to meet me in the evening. Perhaps, if we get the emotional part out of the way quickly enough, he might even start learning some Earth-controlling spells.

"How can I help you?" he inquires in the privacy of the locked and warded classroom. He is trembling with cold, despite wearing as much clothes as he always does, and hugging his chest. I note how harmless he looks like this; nobody could intuit that this diminutive walking skeleton (though not as bony as he was at the beginning of the term) could match the speed and strength of a vampire noble in a duel.

"Where did you learn sword-fighting?"

I sit into a transfigured armchair and cherish the rare moment of relaxation. It is the irony of fate that I would feel so at ease in the presence of a Potter.

The boy shrugs and leans against a table.

"Draco has been training me," he explains. It makes sense – I should have thought of it before. Lucius Malfoy would have had his son taught to fence. On the other hand, is does not astound me that Draco would not show any signs of such training – he is more likely to flaunt his various skills with scissors. "We were pretending to have an affair so that the others would leave us alone and we could practice." So _that_ is what the scene in Grimmauld Place was about. Potter needed to vent some violent energy and Draco consented to a lesson in sword-fighting. I have to concede that they were very convincing; only the knowledge of their previous single 'romantic' encounter allowed me to see through the facade. It _was_ a clever – and a disturbingly believable – ruse.

"Was it necessary?" More than the audacity of the entire act I remember being stuck to a bench. Potter shrugs, not nearly as discomfited about the entire matter as I feel.

"Most of the Gryffindors don't actually approve of blood-sports…"

I laugh. I am not sure I could stop myself if I wanted to. The exhaustion and hysteria of the aftermath of yesterday's bloodbath have finally gotten to me. It seems that Potter is not the only one whose sanity is being chipped off of.

The boy patiently waits until I calm down again, his hand on his wand in case I would spontaneously combust or start firing off random Unforgivables. He does not look exasperated, only weary, which I can relate to too well.

"Do you have the… training… often?" I inwardly cringe as I listen to myself. While I managed to stop sniggering like a loon, apparently the hysterical hilarity is somewhat more difficult to shake off.

"Not as often as we used to. Draco hates losing. When I started winning, he stopped enjoying it."

Which practically bades my next question.

"How is it that you can defeat someone who has been training since infancy?" It does not surprise me that he can, after what I witnessed of his clash with the First Lord, but the mechanics of it escape me.

Potter's indifference moves past nonchalance into what I recognise as traces of insanity. He spreads his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of undetermined meaning and sets to enlighten me.

"Draco doesn't have the necessary mindset. He has the grace and the movements; as long as there is no opponent, he wields the sword much more fluently than I could ever hope to. Trouble starts when he _does_ have an opponent." I can imagine that quite well. Draco Malfoy does have the countenance of a ballet-dancer. "Draco fears the pain… I don't."

I think of pain and realise that there was ridiculously little of it involved, for me at least. There was fear and fatality, but not pain. The crying Hufflepuffs, the Weasleys anxious for any news on their mother, who lies in the hospital wing in critical condition, Flitwick's broken legs… those are all but facts, clinical observations. Why is it then, that the expression on Potter's face when he gathered the broken remains of his owl from the ground stands out so vividly in my mind? How is his grief different that that of anyone else? Where has he been all night to need a Glamour to cover the dark circles under his eyes and what was he doing there?

Why is he so calm now when I am acting the fool?

He must see the puzzlement in my eyes, for he comes closer, close enough to touch me if he were so inclined, and summons my wand from my pocket. He sets it on a desk, close enough that I could lunge for it if need be, yet out of my immediate reach.

"Just as out there," he says, and the words fall on my ears taking an inordinately long time to penetrate my brain, "I held out against the bloke for so long because he was afraid to die, and I wasn't."

Why does his proclamation feel like the presence of a dementor? The General with her army of suicidally loyal lackeys and proclaiming her intention to make me a part of her meal did not instil such trepidation in me as Potter's words do now…

"Stupid child…"

"Shh…"

Before my demons drive me to something that would, apart from ridiculous, be also dangerous or destructive, Potter's icy cold hands grip my arms and hold me in place. My body reacts all by itself, trapping him, tracing the rises of his _vertebrae_ and soundlessly forming the numbers as my fingers count them, drawing a line up to the boy's thick skull.

He can not die. He will not die. He must not die…

I would face _Malleus Maleficarum_ to save him from death, even if he did not appreciate it. Until such a time that his soul is in peace and he truly yearns for death I will keep him alive. I will use my body to intercept Unforgivables and sacrifice my dignity to save his fragile psyche.

My grip on him gradually loosens. To my surprise, he does not pull away, remaining on his knees in front of the armchair, keeping hold of one of my hands and looking at me with something that strongly resembles content.

"I think," he says quietly, "we reached a point in our relationship when we have to decide which way we want it to evolve…"

I am stumped; my mind is miles away from the present and does not seem to make out head nor tail of what he is implying.

"What are you talking about?"

He almost smiles, but not quite, as if his facial muscles forgot how to create that expression.

"Three seconds ago, I thought about kissing you." He boldly meets my eyes. "But that is a decision you have to take a part of."

I scoff. The atmosphere is too serene for me to even contemplate that it is a joke – I _know_ Potter, and he does not make jokes of that kind. He does not make a lot of jokes in general. On the other hand, I am also aware that it is not the first time he considers a _relation_ with an older man. I know that the qualities I use to repel people attract him…

"That is entirely inappropriate-"

"I've done worse things," he objects. His eyes are wide, cold, stormy and insane.

"No."

He grins with not a hint of amusement or happiness, just acknowledging some kind of irony he sees.

"It's alright."

I shake my head. It is not alright. I wonder if it ever will be. He is alive, but how far is the line he must not cross unless he looses himself? He is still Harry Potter, that much is apparent from how hard the loss of his familiar was on him, but when will he come to the milestone that signifies the end of the Boy Who Lived and the beginning of another Dark Lord?

"Are you really propositioning me, Potter?"

He smiles that callous little smile that I am sure he has been training in front of a mirror for ages, designed specifically to convince select people (_me_) that he is an adult, which is a blatant lie, of course (even though I do accept him as my equal), but lying is one of the skills he has recently mastered. And I must concede: he lies beautifully.

"Yes, I am," he says with not a hint of remorse. I very much doubt that he is aware of the possible consequences, though I am tempted despite that awareness.

I have made a mistake. I was one of the few who showed him kindness, and of those the only one who showed him understanding. He… he _knows_ what I have done and yet is not repulsed by me… and that terrifies me. There is Darkness within this Boy Who Lived, Darkness so very different from my own, and yet so consuming…

"There are rules against such behaviour."

"There are rules against killing people, _Severus_." It is the first time he uses my name while either of us is sober, and it scares me how _right_ it sounds from his lips. It occurs to me that, perhaps, he has sold his soul for the chance to win against the Dark Lord. That idea makes me view the situation from the other side.

_We are already damned_, those green eyes seem to say, _what is one more sin to either of us?_ What makes him seek physical comfort with me remains anyone's guess, but he is just too special… he is the bloody Boy Who Lived, for goodness sake! And so it seems that I have finally yielded to the dubious charm of the person, if not to the myth.

Life of a Death Eater makes one lose their sense of propriety and shame, but I have still kept my moral code. It is crucial these days; I have to refer to it often, confirming consciously whether my intentions are within the frame of social acceptability. And this is not.

"No, Potter. You may 'cry on my shoulder', but I will not bugger you."

He chuckles, presumably at my wording. Once again he has defied my expectations – I have hoped to offend him with the crassness of the statement and force him to close the topic for a very long time (I am nowhere near as idealistic as to believe it would derail him permanently).

"You are grieving. You would regret this tomorrow… In fact, I wager you will regret proposing it when you wake up in the morning and rouse you brain half-way to coherency."

He totally ignores the insult, latching onto the first sentence. I can read it in the way he looks at the floor and then swiftly stands up, as if physical distance could help him distance himself emotionally.

"Your owl-"

"I've loved her…" he claims and far be it from me to dispute that claim, "…so it would have happened sooner or later." Delivering the statement, he turns on his heel and strides to the door.

"Where are you going?"

He pauses briefly, inclining his head only so that he keeps me on the edge of his vision.

"I have things to do, Professor. This battle didn't end the war. Today, somewhere, there is a present from Tom waiting for me, and I need to numb myself before I go accept it…"

I recall the 'present' he went to receive in the aftermath of the July Battle and swiftly stand up, fully intending to accompany him and classes be damned.

"You have survived, Potter," I try to remind him. I do not know how I expected him to react to that. It is the truth, but how can I convey that it also seems to be the most important fact about the entire night? Judging from his expression he thinks for a moment that I am mocking him, until he fully realises who he is speaking to. Then he just looks weary.

"And who will jump in front of me next time? I have no father or mother anymore, nor an unlucky classmate, no rash Godfather and no devoted familiar… who is going to be the next? You?"

Yes. I will be the next if there ever is a need for another sacrifice-

But before I can tell him anything (I could not quite proclaim it as I thought it), he is gone.

x

When he is more than half an hour late for the scheduled Dark Arts lesson – which we have not confirmed, but which gives me the reason to go and look for him that I have craved since the first snotty thirteen-year-old Gryffindor invaded my classroom in the morning – I abandon my office and prowl the halls for anyone from that thrice-damned house that I could send to inform Potter that his presence is required in my proximity.

As fortune has it, the very first members of the red and gold infestation I chance upon are the two eldest Weasley sons.

"Professor," William says and nods to me, as he used to do when forced to endure my company in the Headquarters. His brother does not bother with a vocal greeting, settling for a nod only. I do not give a broken Knut.

"I need to speak with Potter. Urgently. Be so kind and inform him-"

"Harry?" Charles asks, and I silently curse the lack of intelligence that is genetic to Minerva's brood. Of course I mean _Harry_ Potter, how many Potters are there left for it to create such confusion?

"Ron said he was with you," William clarifies. The feeling reminiscent of dementors' presence returns. The three of us stand motionless for several seconds in a grotesque frozen tableau, before William recovers enough mental capacity to provide a course of action. "Ask the Headmaster if someone left the wards, we'll go consult the Map."

He does not clarify which map, but they are off and it really is reasonable to ask Dumbledore first. I might be panicking without reason – Minerva, or even the old coot himself, might have taken it into their minds that Potter needs to 'talk about what happened' and are currently playing on counsellors…

Then, there in the middle of a hallway, the ring on my finger lets out a high pitched shriek. I glance at it; it has been so long since I used it that it takes me a moment to realise what is happening and remember how to stop it.

"_Eury_-"

Silence. I have not finished the command, though… Then something snaps and the magic from the ring disappears. It is a useless piece of metal. I speed up in the direction of the Headmaster's office.

If Harry Potter dies, I do not have faith in anything anymore.


	21. Pinkerton Men

A/N: For those who have decided to follow the events from Harry's point of view, too, the second installment of _Metamorphosis_ has been updated!  
Read, enjoy, review!

Brynn

x

Pinkerton Men 

x

"Headmaster, where is Potter?"

Dumbledore feigns surprise at seeing me, while the portraits of his predecessors look at me as though I still was an errant student.

I do not dwell on how much I hate this place and the way the old man interlaces his fingers and gazes at me over the top of his spectacles.

"Now, now, Severus. It has taken Harry a lot of courage to put his life into danger on our behalf. I must admit that it is quite likely that without his contribution, the outcome of yesterday's battle might have been quite different…"

The old bastard is stalling! My fingers flex, twitching to squeeze the wrinkled neck hidden behind the beard.

"Headmaster…" I growl.

"Certainly, Severus, you can forgive whatever the boy has done now."

"He is missing!" That finally shuts the geezer up. In any other situation I would probably be gratified, maybe even amused by how perplexed he looks. I ignore the sniggering paintings, banish the thought about how it was once Death Eaters who laughed when someone was in danger. Are all people the same, all like this? Is this what Potter sees when asked to save the wizardkind? No wonder then that he would run away… if that is what he has done.

I shake my head and muster enough ire to cover up my concern for the boy.

"I want to know where he is and if you were aware of his departure."

Dumbledore sighs and exchanges tacit glances with several of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses. The outcome of these silent communication is exactly nothing.

"I shall send Minerva to ask the perimeter guards.

x

It is more than an hour later when any substantial information is generated. Sir Nicholas after merciless interrogation admits to have promised to Potter to not speak of his appearance when the boy met him in the secret passage leading to the Shrieking Shack, which the ghost was supposedly guarding. The situation illustrates clearly that age does not mean wisdom and Gryffindors come in various shapes, colours and sizes, but with unified level of intelligence.

Potter is an exception in that he has random strikes of brilliance.

The Headmaster, predictably, decides there is nothing to worry about at all. Having cognisance of the other perspective now, I can overlook his tolerance of Potter's escapades (it would be banal to punish the boy for breaking curfew, when he did so to destroy a couple of antagonistic blood-sucking monsters and save a number of lives – including mine), but his ignorance of the brat's state of mind is inexcusable.

As I have no resources at my disposal and my appeals go unheard, I take it upon myself to find the boy. The four members of his Inner Circle catch on to his disappearance by this time and the only way I am able to make them remain within the castle is to threaten them with informing Minerva of their intentions and promising them alert to any news.

First when I step out of the front gates I realise that the weather has changed dramatically since yesterday. The rain is so thick that I cannot see the lake from the steps. Before I reach the Whomping Willow, I am covered in mud up to my knees despite the Impervius Charm.

In Hogsmeade no one has seen Potter wherefore, since the place is still sealed hermetically by Moody, I am inclined to believe he has not been there. Moody instructs his people to be on the outlook for the boy, but it is fairly obvious that they are much too busy to go searching for one child, no matter who that child is. There are whole families waiting to return to their houses, merchandise to restart and loss of interests to make up for.

Disillusioned a little more than I was in the morning, I return to the Shack and walk up the road in the opposite direction. The sludge is escaping from under my soles and making simple step a hazardous feat. Potter could not have gotten too far in conditions like these, but he might have hours of a head start…

Thankfully… or not… I barely get out of sight of the supposedly haunted building when I sense an immense magical disruption. Potter, true to himself, has undoubtedly gotten into some sort of trouble again. At least I know I am going in the right direction, although it is not much of a consolation.

Not five minutes later I happen upon a wide patch of withered grass. The road winds through its centre, which is a suspiciously bright triangle. The reason why I am out in these inhumane conditions is not in sight, but I recognise the magic as his, inherently Dark and, with only a little doubt, not Malicious. Leastways not towards myself. I curse Potter for reducing me to such a fool and enter the perimeter.

The triangle is composed of five candles elevated from the ground on candlesticks, charmed to repel the rain. There is a broken leftover of a pattern drawn into the soil, the channels filled with murky water. Four of the candles are set on four apices of a star inscribed in a circle, whereas the fifth one is set at the third vertex of the triangle. There is another candlestick and another candle, both drowned in two separate puddles, a if knocked aside by great force.

Albeit delayed, horror grips me. Could Potter have known… Of course he could. He had been reading an inordinate amount of books, always concealed, wrapped in the front page of a current Daily Prophet issue… he could have easily found out about blood-rituals and how to perform them. He could have felt desperate enough to resort to such measures…

I feel like I failed. There was one, only one thing that I have expected of myself, and I could not do it.

I shake my head in denial and investigate the site more closely. It is apparent that the ritual was not finished. Potter does not get cold feet, so it is logical to assume that someone would have interrupted him… but the knowledge of refocusing flux of energy to weaken the load stress is very rare, not to speak about the magical resistance required to survive getting into the way of a built-up Dark spell…

Weasleys. Potter has been found by Weasleys. The older one is a curse-breaker – he might have known what to do. But the power… there is indubitably much more to those two men than I ever suspected. It does not fully quench my worry, but it lessens it greatly. Would they have taken the boy to a safe place away from this madness? And, by the time he comes back – for he surely _must_ come back – will he have healed?

x

I give my, heavily edited, report on the three missing wizards to the congregated half of the Order of the Phoenix (those members whose injuries do not prevent them from attending). I do not mention the ritual at all – I have destroyed all evidence of it, for it is better for them to wonder if Potter is disturbed or scared than to _know_ him to be using Dark magic.

Ah, would that screw with their heads…

I flee from the room as soon as possible and for the first time it does not bother me that Moody is practically stepping on my heels in the haste to not let me get out of sight.

"Do you not have some work in the village?" I ask him caustically, still alert from the meeting. Dumbledore and his bootlickers did not think to ask for details of how I found out that the Weasleys have taken Potter Merlin knows where, but the old Auror is wont to spot the discrepancy at a mile's distance.

"All wrapped up an' finished. Not much work, anyway, just taking out trash an' securing the location. Still got soggy… good thing, mind, 's that the bodies were gone by the time it started comin' down."

For doing it all so quickly and to singularly high standards, Moody does not look nearly smug enough. His sodden overcoat might be a reason for that, though I fail to understand how it happened to him.

"You did the rebuilding remarkably quickly."

He shrugs and gestures for me to continue on my way, falling in step next to me, as much as it is possible for someone who limps as bad as he does.

"Not much to rebuild," he mutters. "A bad hole in an old harpy's livin' room, and a fallen porch that buried lil' squeaky man, but other than that just scrapes…"

I banish the picture of how I think Flitwick would react after being referred to as 'little squeaky man'. It is but a provocation from Moody, anyway – I am well aware that he is on amicable terms with the Charms Professor, due to an exchange of useful tips and warrior bonding or something like that. I do not pretend to understand it.

"I distinctly remember fire," I say, not tempering the sarcasm. Moody pins me with a look that I used to use on Longbottom when he melted a cauldron.

"Enchanted Fire, 'course," he says as if it was the most obvious thing in the world… which it is. Curse Potter, for withering my brain with hope and concerns and other inanities. "Woudna want to burn the people's roofs, would we? By the way, that's Potter's idea. Just like the snipers – Muggles, if you'd believe it."

I do. It is not easy, but I have seen the results of that ingeniousness before. The Muggles worked well.

"Y'know, Snape… I haven't seen Potter use a sword before, but I coulda sworn he had one and did a lot of damage with it…"

I nod in acknowledgement to his statement, but do not offer any further information. Moody seems to have expected that, so he gives me a sinister crooked (and here and there even disjointed) grin and prattles on, never once mentioning the missing details from my report.

x

On Saturday morning I set out on my usual early round of the castle. No students are out of bounds, scared stiff in their fancy four-posters while their Saviour is stuck in unknown condition and dealing with either the loss of limbs or with severe damage to his nervous system. I stop at the ramparts for a short while of reminiscence, thinking back to the 31st of July when I was so certain that I was going to die. But there is, thankfully, no excitable metamorphmagus here to bug me today.

On the other hand, there is a tall red-haired person standing on the wet grass and casting a spell on a barn owl that has flown out of the Headmaster's office window. A quick check of all the Weasleys and Prewetts leaves me with two possibilities as to the perpetrator: Arthur or Percival. Neither option is reassuring – one means that there are still ways to infiltrate Hogwarts, the other that there are more dissidents (I hesitate to point at someone and call 'traitor') than just Potter and myself among the Order. Although, after William and Charles acted disregarding Dumbledore's instructions (and made the old coot quite cross with themselves) it should not come as such a surprise.

I relocate to the Entrance Hall and meet him just as he pushes a wing of the gate shut.

"Arthur."

He looks at me with confusion until he puts two and two together.

"Severus."

He is nervous yet determined. His hands do not shake and he does not sweat – I am trained to notice such details – he honestly believes that whatever it was he just did was right, even if it was against orders. I privately applaud such conduct, even if I cannot endorse it to his face.

He falters under my gaze after a while and leans against the wall, reminding me quite ostensibly of William – I feel I know the young man better than I know his father, having taught him for seven years, but it is now obvious that Arthur had resembled him quite a lot in his time. William inherited the Prewett beauty, but the grace and spontaneity clearly came from the Weasley side. I watch analytically as he chafes his hands together and lifts one in a half-forgotten movement designed most likely to keep errant strands of hair (which has been cropped short years ago) out of his face; I recognise it only from having observed his sons.

"It wasn't fair, Severus," he says. Whatever drives him to explain himself to me, I am not the kind of man to stop him. I am not likely to alert anyone to his actions either. Besides, I agree with him wholeheartedly. A pair of deep blue eyes measures me with a hint of surprise, likely caused by my lack of reaction. "Diana will reach the boys with or without a Tracking Charm. Should they need help, they can ask for it, but I doubt they require anything but time off. They deserve the vacation, Harry more than anyone else."

Strange how, suddenly, when it suits them, people grow a sense of fairness. I suppose this is not _fair_ to Arthur – he was always patient and treated everyone (_me included_) equally. I have become so unused to this almost-friendly rapport that I do not know how to react to it. I yearned for such companionship in past… but there was no one to offer it. I appreciate it, but in the end the only one I allow myself to care for is Potter.

But this wizard believes I would understand… Perhaps I have underestimated Arthur. After all, he managed to raise at least four outstanding men. I think in this instant both of us realise just why there never was any animosity between us, why we were always willing to give each other a chance. I have great respect for him (even if not real friendship), and it seems that it is not one-sided.

"Both of us have broken the rules, Arthur, and we shall do so again, when the situation calls for it."

He absently tugs on the collar of his navy blue shirt and purses his lips. The comment was not as complicated as to warrant so much contemplation, but I do not hold it against him when he treats me with caution. I have been known to harm my offenders.

"I don't ask forbearance."

"I know. I cannot offer you any, either way." Even if he had anything to apologise for, which I doubt he does. He is one of those untarnished Light creatures, like Lupin, like Molly Weasley (who lies in the hospital wing), like Hestia Jones and a number of others, but he is the only one of them who tries to understand Darkness and treats it as an unwanted experience rather than a flaw of character.

"I saw you with Harry."

Oh, that. I do my best to keep any public interaction involving Potter and me properly antagonistic and rely on the self-assuredness of our acquaintances to not spot the minute divergence. Perhaps it is unnecessarily overdone. I steel myself for a lecture on how I ought to be giving the boy a moment of rest (which is, in the current situation, rather redundant). Therefore it comes as a surprise when he shows no sign of anger, not even annoyance, and speaks of the Gryffindor rather than chastises myself.

"That is one young man whose fate makes my heart bleed. He is like my own, but there are obstructions between us that prevent me to act on those sentiments."

Even if his attempt to make me sympathise with Potter fails, I commiserate with Arthur. Albus Dumbledore, the war, the Ministry and a multitude of other obstacles keep the Boy Who Lived separated from the Weasley pleiad. They keep him separated from _everyone_, and it once already drove him to the edge of insanity. I cannot act as the world's safety forever… But I do not know how to change anything.

Arthur sighs when I scowl, but still does not give me a lecture, nor twinkles like costume jewellery; rather he looks at me with gratefulness which I have stopped expecting from anyone years ago. Were it not for the recent training Potter gave me, it might have scared me into escaping this little encounter.

"I cannot help you there, either," I say nervelessly. He actually _smiles_.

"No… no, you can't help me. But you can, obviously, help Harry."

My self-control keeps my jaw from falling, but he apparently sees my shock written in my face. He was not supposed to know about that… I thought he was trying to get me to back off of Potter…

"If it is even a little, I urge you to do so, Severus. From what I see – and I see a lot more than people around me realise-" Yes, I noticed. Rather belatedly, though, "-you are the only one still able to reach him. I do not want to bury any of my children."

I glimpse a very much unwanted picture in front of my mind's eye – Potter, lying spread-eagled on green grass, Avada Kedavra eyes staring blankly at the sky…

I rapidly shake my head, trying to drive it away. No, he cannot die. He just cannot. I recall our latest clash… his hands. His words, and the impossibility of his suggestion. I know I am trying to balance on the edge of a knife, giving him all of myself spiritually and mentally, but refusing him the physical aspect. But there is no other way!

"He asks more than I can provide," I whisper, sneering at the shadows.

"Severus…" Arthur presses, keeping his kind demeanour even while increasing the urgency of his demands. "I am aware of the irony of you being told this, but… this is an instance, when the result is worth a lot more than you giving up your morals." I gape at him openly this time. He cannot know… if he tells anybody… it is none of his business…

He reaches out, briefly clasps my shoulder, and quickly retracts his hand. It does help calm me down, though I still cannot grasp how he can ask of me what he asks. He attempts another smile, but it is wan and slips away far too rapidly, showing his uncertainty.

"I would not be strong enough to follow this advice, and that makes me glad that it is you – you, who I can trust…" His eyes implore me to listen, to try and save the Gryffindor Golden Boy… even though there is little Gryffindor and little Golden in the boy left. "Harry has already locked away his conscience and you brought him back to us when he was on the verge of abandoning his humanity."

So I was not the only one to see Potter's decline… I was the only one to _do_ something about it. If I had not, would Arthur have…? Or would he have kept on watching and bear a silent witness to the death of our hope? It is truth, though, that he could never give himself over to the task the way I have – he has a wife and seven children. I have but Potter.

"I…" …do not know what to say. I cannot deny him, especially since I live on a single purpose now, too, and that is Potter. I cannot promise him anything, either. It is _wrong_.

This entire fucking world is _wrong_.

"Whatever you decide to do," Arthur says when it is apparent that I do not have an answer for him, "you have my support. Even if it backfires, even if members of my family turn on you, you have my support." Arthur was never good at Occlumency; he is a projecting kind of person. While I do not often abuse my skills, it is hard to ignore the eldest Weasley's thoughts when they saturate the atmosphere. Sometimes I almost think he does it on purpose… Right now I get from him an overwhelming desire to help and sadness (which is also clearly visible in his eyes). There is nothing he can offer Potter or me except for that abstract support.

He risks clasping my shoulder again, and I feel a startling lack of crossness at the invasion of my personal space. I give him an empty nod and walk away, safe in the knowledge that Potter is going to be left alone wherever he is, but also in doubts about my decisions regarding the boy.

When the door to my quarters is reliably locked behind me, I finally allow myself to relax. I shrug off my cloak and my robe, pretending not to notice when the latter slips off the rack and crumples on the floor, and sink onto the sofa. I pour myself a glass of mineral water from the bottle on the desk (it was not worth the trouble to call a house elf to take it away yesterday), and let my mind wander.

I wonder how many people truly realise what a unique man Arthur Weasley is. He is so quiet, so inconspicuous in a Pinkerton way, so odd with so many little quirks that people tend to think of him as harmless, a comic relief. But behind those blue eyes, there is a keen mind, a kind, accepting personality and a character with strength paralleled by few…

x

Days pass and members of the Order of the Phoenix are running around in panic, oftentimes ignoring the real issues in favour of hyperventilating over Potter's absence. The two eldest Weasley sons have yet to resurface as well, which calms down one half and further agitates the other.

I, _once again_, find myself in a rather singular position. William and Charles are good men, but I do not feel any kind of attachment to either of them past them being my former students, which means… more or less nothing. Potter, on the other hand, has left behind a black hole constantly present in the room. For months he has been the centre my life revolved around and now he is… not there. I feel like I am floating, somehow suspended in mid-air, absently watching the life go on around me but not affect me.

Dumbledore does not deign to give me a task in all this madness; Minerva avoids me; Lupin has lost his head and everyone else is sinking in a sea of things to do when they do not contemplate Potter's fate. Pondering the Boy Who Lived suddenly takes a lot of time for some people. How quaint – especially considering that as long as he actually _was_ here, no one bothered to cast a second glance his way.

Such is the life of heroes – and the boy knew it long before I have realised it for myself. I wish now I could have seen through the glamour earlier. Perhaps… perhaps he would not have run… fled… he would have fought on, not _decided to bargain_…

These feelings of guilt are nothing new, but the sobriety while I am trying to deal with them is. I know now how he is going to feel when (_if_) he kills the dark Lord. He will be suspended… separated from everyone by an invisible wall of indifference…

What if he _does not_ come back? We are going to need… I do not know. Are we going to have a chance, or is hope going to die with him, as if he was some kind of mystical anchor? Are the wizards and witches going to be as stupid as to give up if news reach them that the Boy Who Lived, the Golden Child, the scrawny underfed depressive twisted tragic creature is not there to shield them with his twelve pairs of pathetically protruding ribs?

I alternately feel like crying and screaming and destroying fragile objects. I do not, of course, but there is the irrational tiny urge… I need to find something to occupy myself with.


	22. Misanthrope

A/N: Thank you for your feedback! I cherish it all! Here's another chapter with suffering Severus and… Harry's back!  
Enjoy. Review.

Brynn

x

Misanthrope 

x

Catherine Garton is a woman of many answers.

She used to be a Ravenclaw, a few years ahead of myself, an outsider rather like the Lovegood girl, though for reasons vastly different. Garton is namely a very clearheaded, realistic misanthrope.

She lives in a cottage accessible only by Floo or an hour-long walk. Myself not being partial to trekking and not suffering an overabundance of free time to kill, I select the former option.

When a person walks out of Garton's hearth uninvited (and therefore unaware of the defence system and lacking a shield), they end up Bound and Silenced, lying under a morbidly impressive authentic guillotine blade. I have considered similar measures in my quarters at Hogwarts, but later decided that with some of the reoccurring visitors the temptation would be much too great.

I relatively neatly dispel the two hexes aimed at me and rather ungracefully duck to avoid the third one, which is apparently a recent addition.

"Hello, Professor," a low female voice announces from the next room with deceptive mildness. That is one secret that remains a mystery to me – how does she know who enters? Granted, most people (still alive) would know the identity of their visitor, but Garton has never bothered to cast wards or surveillance spells on that damn fireplace.

"Professor," I reply to her. Technically, the address is incorrect, but I continue to use it as a gesture of respect… which is probably one of the reasons why Garton has learnt to tolerate me. After all, there are not many witches and wizards intellectually equal to her that would respect a rude, eccentric unattractive shrew dressed in crumpled baggy pants inherited from some of her male ancestors and a flannel shirt. Her feet rest on her worktable, bare heels digging into a pile of parchments; she is leaning back against the backrest of her armchair. A thin wisp of smoke rises from the cigarette between her fingers.

"Lovely to see your face again," she deadpans and brings the cigarette to her lips. Her nails are stained yellow and bitten. "I suppose you do have a reason for traipsing in here."

Charming. I maintain that she should have kept on teaching, if for the sole purpose of my pleasure of watching her cut the brats down. There had been some parents' complaints to the Ministry – apparently she dared tell one of their sprogs that she was 'an average dim waste of inbreeding'.

"Like I would risk my life out of sheer boredom."

She raises her eyebrow – a gesture so awesomely derisive that I have subconsciously adopted it in my first year at Hogwarts. Coming from her, it almost makes me feel young.

"Don't you?" I suppress the urge to sneer, but do give her a glare.

"I do not believe a person who never did anything in their life had a chance to experience compunctions. Therefore you cannot be expected to understand my motivation."

Garton scowls.

"This is why I hate people." She reaches into a glass case behind her, picks up a key from a cracked tea cup, opens her table and recovers a book that looks like a diary several dozen years in her use. "I'm writing it down, right next to where Stamford Jorkins said that I was too stupid to cook a dinner for him."

I grimace – an imbecilic remark of that sort warrants a nasty jinx from Garton, in case that she has been in a relatively good mood at the time… Nevertheless, Stamford Jorkins is a recently dead Death Eater, so from a certain point of view the remark could be understood as a compliment.

"You're like a little ornate mirror, Professor," she says absently, quill scraping over the sheet of hard paper. "Skulls and bones all over the frame, of course. I look into you and see myself grow more and more embittered by the day."

"How strange," I reply drolly. I prize my association with Garton and thus am willing to exercise far more patience than I do in dealing with just about anyone else. I seem to have managed to surprise her – an occasion which I cherish.

"Is it?" she asks, tapping her cigarette on the edge of the desk.

"Indeed. If you have stated that a year ago, you might have been correct."

"And what memorable change happened in your thoroughly un-enjoyable life, Professor? If I recall correctly, mere six months in the past we had no equal in our cynicism save each other."

"Are you feeling lonely, left behind in your solitude?" I ask cruelly. "That was not my intention." She is hard to entice and hard to rile up, but sometimes I get the strangest feeling that she might be easy to wound, despite all the ice and indifference she displays. On the other hand, she does give as good as she gets.

"We are not and never have been friends, Professor, but I admit that in several particular instances your companionship wasn't unappreciated."

"'Was not'? Not 'has not been'?" I admit that it aggrieves me – I have hoped that a black cloud overhead was not a perquisite for continued admittance into Garton's circles.

"Go enjoy walks in moonlight and kisses under Sakura blooms, Professor. I know a man in love when I see one."

Now she has gone too far. That… that _word_ has nothing to do anywhere in conjunction with my name. I apply the technique I use on the first-years with heads too blown-out to be used for thinking after they mess up.

"Self-pity? From you?" I shake my head. How ironic: it seems that cynicism is closely linked with self-pity. Either one stems from the other, or it is a direct by-product. I still maintain that my own 'disenchantment' with humankind is born of the humankind's general derision towards my person. Perhaps that was one of Garton's answers. "You are full of surprises today, Professor. If you wish to discontinue our association, I shall oblige you, but unless you express such wish, I have every intention to carry on with these semi-regular rendezvous."

"Why would you? I have nothing to offer but scathing humourless observations. I doubt those'd be enough to risk incurring the wrath of your paramour."

I scoff, using it to hide my conflicted feelings.

"There is no paramour, Professor. As I have already noted earlier, I do have conscience, and the blackened, _atrophied_ thing does not allow me to act on my emotions, on the off chance that I should admit them to myself."

"How special a man you are, Professor… I have never witnessed such dry, completely aware denial."

"It is not my decision. If I admitted to myself that I do feel so, not even my conscience could stop me from making…" I stop myself before I reveal more than I ought to. Garton watches me very, very closely, leaning forwards over her desk. Her breath smells of tobacco.

"Interesting."

I blink. Maybe I have said too much without realising it.

"What is?"

"They are your student… and they want you."

Yes, I have definitely said too much. Garton is about the sharpest quill in the box, the most intelligent person (in potential) I have ever met, and in that I include both the Headmaster and the Dark Lord. It is such a pity that she lacks the bravery to face daily life.

"Is it so inconceivable that someone could desire me?" I ask dryly. Garton shakes her head.

"Not at all, Professor. You are a very un-charming and un-beautiful man, but no one can dispute your charisma, brain and balls of solid steel." She is probably the only high-society witch to ever use such a crass phrase, but I am used to her and therefore avoid embarrassment easily. "What I find improbable, however, is that these qualities are appreciated by a teenager."

"_They_ are a very improbable teenager."

Garton gives me a thin, wry smile.

"Must be, if _they_ caught your fancy." Then she smirks and lights another cigarette. I should have figured that she would have no problem with homosexuality – she hates everyone equally. "Not that I care, beside you admitting that your love-_dis_interest won't hinder you in there very happy visits. I might even install another defence-curse, specifically out of my overwhelming ecstasy," she says evenly, and I cannot stop myself from mentally remarking upon her never ceasing delightfulness.

"I would have expected you to have asked for a name by now," I say, belatedly realising that I have just, in my curiosity, unintentionally provoked her.

"Oh, but, Professor, I am absolutely uninterested. I have suspicions, not that I care for those, either, but some conclusions are rather obvious, and I see little sense in preventing myself from thinking clearly." She taps her cigarette with her index finger, dislodging burnt paper and tobacco on the floor, all the while staring somewhere above and beyond me. "But realise this: if my suspicions are correct, you truly ought to reconsider. Perhaps wait until _he_ graduates, if sleeping with a student offends your sensibilities, but it might be too late by that time. _He_ really isn't very likely to survive that long…" I hate what she is saying. For a moment I feel almost like I hate her too, but in fact it is only the truth of the statement that feels like an icy fist clenching my insides. "If you want your fuck to remember him by, you should move fast."

Just like Harry back in July, Garton has crossed into an uncomfortable territory. She knows it perfectly well, too – perhaps did it to get rid of me, but knowing that I have something to discuss with her, it is more likely that the point was simply to spite me.

"How good are you in strategy?"

She points behind herself into the cluttered glass case – I cannot discern what the mess is made of. She reaches in and slams a bent-out-of-shape goblet on the desk, crunching a roll of parchment with its foot. It is, according to the tiny writing on its front, a prize for the first place in WCCC, which informs me of exactly nothing at all.

"Chessmaster tournament. Was sixteen at the time and bored out of my mind. I warn you now, Professor – never ever try playing chess against an International Grandmaster. It's the single most brain-killing activity I've ever participated in, and I have survived through seven years of History of Magic with Binns."

I shake my head at the inanity of the statement.

"How about battle strategy?" I query to return to the topic I originally wanted to discuss with her.

"That's different." As if I didn't know that. It is vastly different, depending on variables that are not present in chess, either wizard or Muggle. "Look, Professor, I can do _anything_ that is possible at all. I could take six schoolchildren and defeat that Dark Lord slave-master of yours." As I do not believe in coincidences, the exact number she chooses makes me think that for a recluse, she knows much too much.

"But?" I ask, because with Garton there always is a catch, and the fact that the Dark Lord is still kicking is rather telling.

"Why would I bother? I _hate_ you people. I positively loathe every second spent around humans and there is nothing, _nothing_ you can offer me in return."

There must be something. There almost always is. And no matter how brightly Dumbledore twinkles, it is Garton the 'Light side' truly needs now. Maybe she could meet Potter; the two would wax philosophical about how mankind is not worth saving and then Potter would save it anyway, because that is simply how he is.

The woman scoffs at me as if she could read my damned mind and takes another drag of her cigarette, closing her eyes. Within seconds she is once again calm. I notice that even though se was angry, her magic did not surge.

When I deem the pause long enough, I return to the topic of the Dark Lord.

"Did _He_ not come after you yet?"

Garton laughs deprecatingly.

"Of course not. And I don't expect him, either." The confidence she says that with would make me suspect an alliance with the Dark Lord, at the best, from anyone else. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I doubt he knows that I even exist. Even if he did know, coming after me would be the subtle and logical thing to do, and we have yet to see Tom Riddle act either subtly or logically."

While that does make sense on a certain level…

"Those are risky odds to wager your lives on."

"Far less risky than yours, Professor," she throws back, undisturbed. "Don't bother attempting to sway me to join your bloody brawl, lest I might reconsider and ban you from accessing this cheerful place. Don't try my tolerance – it's depths are non-existent."

I have not actually expected her to pick a side – had I not been as stupid as I was at seventeen, I would have remained neutral – and secluded – as well. It was not to be, though… maybe I have gotten myself something from the deal. Or will get. Even if the idea is incontestably preposterous.

"Would you be amenable to consulting strategy with me?"

There is a surprisingly long while of silence as Garton contemplates my request. I do not dare hope for much, but the outlook is, in light of her difficulty to decide, rather optimistic. Finally, she nods. To me it feels like a major accomplishment.

"Do you know-"

"I want something."

I suppress a smirk. I knew there was something that could be offered to her in return for her consultations. As long as it is not mass homicide or a teaching post, there probably is a way to provide it for her.

"What?" I ask her bluntly. She leers at me.

"I want to meet your little lover boy. Not necessarily be introduced to him, but get a good look at him, see what he's made of…"

It figures that it would be Potter's celebrity which wins the war for the Light.

x

I do not count the days deliberately, but it is hard not to realise every morning that another one has passed, and add it to the steadily increasing number. I teach, pretending that there is not one more empty seat in my sixth year N.E.W.T. class, and brew whatever Pomfrey or Dumbledore inform me is needed.

On 24th of November there are no students to torment me, all of them sleeping in after yet another gruelling week of lessons. I am not given such luxury, since the three Full Moon nights are starting tomorrow and the Order's pet werewolf has not had his Wolfsbane. It falls to me to deliver it to the Headquarters, which now probably belongs either to Potter or to Lupin (I have not inquired), and which is housing all the Order members who cannot afford suitable accommodation or who live off-shore.

I am intercepted immediately upon arriving by Molly Weasley, who is paler than ever but on her feet again and mothering everyone she gets her clutches onto, as if it should help lessen the worry for her missing sons. I am certain the trinity is just fine somewhere on the continent and enjoys a few days without constant mollycoddling.

I accept the breakfast she puts in front of me without objections, thus escaping a lecture, when a crack sounds upstairs. It is unmistakably an Apparition. I wonder who else, except for Molly Weasley and Lupin (with Nymphadora likely hanging off his arm) I shall have to deal with today, when a voice I have yearned to hear for weeks shouts for the entire house to hear: "Charlie!"

I am on my feet and running before the name is complete. Molly yells something after me but I do not listen. I slow down in the hallway to avoid slipping on one of the rugs ad breaking a leg but take the stairs by two-

Jones almost rams into me on her way in the opposite direction.

"Bill – help – drawing room…" she spits and runs on downstairs.

I reach my destination just as Charles exclaims in frustration: "I don't know! Curse-breaking his turf!" I push the door open. Lupin and Nymphadora are sitting on one of the sofas, holding hands as they have been before the unexpected arrival of the three missing wizards, shell-shocked. William is lying on the carpet, unconscious; his trousers are torn and blood-stained, but Potter has in the meantime healed the wound and now he and Charles are staring at William's hands, which are coated in violet crystals.

Potter's eyes stray to me and I am met with such a hope and relief at my presence that I do not wait a second longer before pushing Charles out of my way and crouching to examine the curse.

"Contracted through air…" Potter mumbles. It makes sense. I feel different sources of magic at work, the strongest one among them Potter's own, which stops the curse from spreading further. The boy does not even know he is doing it, but were it not for him, William would have already been dead.

H might still die… this could be too difficult.

"Call the Headmaster," I order. In the meantime, I am going to do what I can.

x

By the time Dumbledore deigns to grace us with his reverent presence, William is stabilised and his hands are wrapped in miles of gauze but on the way to complete mend. Potter's unconscious magic made the miracle possible. I wait until William is awake, ascertain that he is coherent and does not feel any strange urges (like to rip anyone to shreds or go wrestle an Acromantula) and take my leave. Molly and the Delacour chit charge into the bedroom just as I step out of it. I almost commiserate with the young man – he does not even have functional hands to defend himself.

It is useless to even attempt to convince myself to go anywhere else but check on Potter. Now that the urgency of the situation with William is gone, I can think back to the moment I saw him. He has changed… a lot. He was not wearing his glasses, but his vision did not seem impaired. He seemed to _rely_ on Charles in something. He _trusted_ him…

I cannot presently decide how I feel about that. It is good that Potter has learnt to trust someone, as long as he does so carefully. He could not have selected better confidants, I believe… but I still feel as though I was losing something.

I listen at the door to the drawing room. Dumbledore has gotten here before me and set straight to interrogating the boy.

"I've read this book, sir… I've gotten it from Si-Sirius…" The stammer is fake, and so is the following sniff. "There was a ritual…"

I almost laugh. The boy is lying! And lying so masterfully that the old coot believes it! Potter is pretending that the three weeks of holidays have made him regress into an innocent remorseful child. Oh, this is good.

"What kind of ritual, Harry?" Suddenly it is not so good. Potter cannot lie about this, because he does not know that the Headmaster has never seen the evidence of his attempted suicide.

"B-blood ritual, sir. I know it's wrong," he says defensively, "but I was so desperate! I don't know how I'm supposed to… to vanquish… Voldemort." Oh, grace! He is unbelievable! If he can twist out of this, he is a true Slytherin. He actually _guilts_ Dumbledore into leaving him alone…

"Harry, child… we all make mistakes. It is important to admit to them, and attempt to make it up. And since you did not actually harm anyone, all you have to make up for is a bit of schoolwork. Your teachers have already consented to give you an independent study plan, up until the Christmas holidays. By that time you should be caught up on all your subjects."

"Thank you, sir!" Potter says happily. I fade into the shadows of the ornate dresser that blocks the door to what used to be the foul house elf's hidey-hole and wait for the Headmaster to take his leave. Then I go congratulate Potter on his manipulation skills and inform him of William's state.

I clap as I enter the room, sarcasm mixing with genuine respect. He turns away from a grimy window to face me, eyes lit with spark that has been missing for so long… one that I had longed to ignite again. It was not to be, though… never mind, as long as he is willing to live and fight.

"Professor…"

I cross my arms to keep myself from grabbing him, holding him close and squeezing him half to death. The universe seems to re-align itself. Potter is home.

x

He convinces the Headmaster to let him stay in Grimmauld Place for the following week so that he can 'catch up on his schoolwork', which I, testily, understand as 'keep William company'. I, on the other hand, must return to Hogwarts and teach little brats how not to blow themselves up. I inform William that I will be coming every second evening to check up on the progress of his healing and to contact me if there are any unexpected occurrences, and take my leave.

Potter's return is communicated to the students at the first opportunity and the bleak mood is lifted practically through the ceiling. Hufflepuffs skip through the corridors, Gryffindors throw a rambunctious celebration and Ravenclaws take a week off studying. I am quite uncertain what the Slytherins do until I find them mixed among all three previous groups and give up on ever instilling order in my House again.

Life is not quite so desolate with the knowledge of Potter's well-being and relative proximity hanging over the school. The black hole that has been stalking me disappears and I impatiently wait for the dinner on Tuesday to end so that I can set out on the way to the Headquarters, admittedly more anxious to se Potter than to find out how is William recovering.

The young man is quite cheerful and I cannot help but feel resentful, because that cheerfulness has all to do with Potter. Delacour does not spend the days in that bleak house and Charles has some kind of occupation undisclosed to me elsewhere. Potter's eyes, undisguised by glasses, mirror William's content. I do my best to not hate the Weasley, concentrating on the fact that he saved Potter's life, that he helped him a lot, that he was _going to marry the _veela.

It is when the time comes for me to deliver the verdict that the arguments I use to convince myself begin to sound flat. The tiny bedroom is quite cramped because I did not throw Potter out when I came, and Charles and Delacour trickled in sometime during the past twenty minutes.

"Could you come with me for a moment, Fleur?" Charles asks.

William stares at his fiancée with an expertly faked smile, Charles stares at Potter, and Potter stares straight back at me with a challenge. I can virtually hear him: 'You've got something to say Snape? Then say it!' But I cannot even begin to guess what happened to them. I just can see that they are not exactly happy to be back, and I cannot blame them.

The _veela_ opens her mouth to snap some caustic reply, but as soon as she establishes eye-contact, her irritation disappears. She smiles blandly, nods, and follows Charles out of the room.

My bafflement must be obvious, but neither William nor Potter chooses to comment upon it.

"So, am I crippled for life or will I not live long enough for it to bother me?" the red-haired man asks. Potter snickers, despite the apparent solemnity of the question. I feel the enormous weight of the query settling on me, together with the eye-opening realisation of how cynical William Weasley really is. As he is from a loving family and had not fought in the first war, it implies a lot of hardship in his very short life out of the country. Potter knows this; he has tapped the depths of William and formed a bond of some sort.

I think I am about ready to admit to myself just how jealous I am.

"I told you that you will regain full use of your hands, imbecile," I spit caustically. I want to wring his neck. "You can get out of the bed on Saturday. Feel free not to wear gloves, but do not come whinging to me if your fingers begin to fall off."

William and Potter exchange a glance.

"I apologise for this, Professor," Potter says. William's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak (or shout, more likely), but the brat has meanwhile turned his back on him and currently stands right in front of me.

"What are you-"

The little monster stands on his tiptoes, and I am startled into silence by a soft unfamiliar sensation on my cheek. William simply stares for a while, and then his shoulders begin to shake with laughter. He bites on his lips; his hands jerk upward, but he quickly puts them back down, grimacing with pain.

I hope (in vain) that Potter did not just do what I fear he did.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I promised Bill."

I suppose I am shocked out of my infamous eloquence, and a wordless growl would not convey my feelings on this occurrence accurately, therefore I simply shake my head and exit in silence. I pause outside in the hallway to listen, though – I _am_ a Slytherin. The laughter is going to hurt, but I want to know for sure what has just happened.

Bed-springs creak. Considering that William is temporarily confined to the bed, it was Potter sitting on its side. Such intimacy is comprehensible, albeit not exactly anticipated. Nevertheless, the desire to rip Weasley's jugular is gone.

"You haven't _promised_ to kiss him," William says quietly, with a combination of amusement and bemusement. The complexity of his reaction reminds me of his father – they are both difficult men to understand. Although, Potter seems to understand William Weasley _quite well_.

"No, I haven't," Potter admits. William chuckles.

"You just used me as an excuse so you could kiss him, didn't you?"

I freeze. Potter could not have actually told one of the Weasleys about our… _interaction_ and his subsequent proposition, could he? I will be lynched if he has! But William was only mocking Potter, certainly…

"Maybe…" Potter sighs and the humour evaporates. "Who else should I turn to? Sweet innocent little Ginny, whose idea of defence against the stuff my nightmares are made of is casting Stunning Spells? She _would_ let me if I expressed interest, you know… But I can get the same level of comfort from my hand… And I can be sure that I won't break its fluttering little heart."

I should storm in and give Potter a thorough tongue-lashing for the insinuation. Nevertheless, I unfreeze myself and flee before someone catches me eavesdropping.

x

I pretend that it has not happened for almost half a day, take time to think about what Potter did. I come to the conclusion that, despite the lack of mocking laughs, Potter and William have staged the entire scene to have some cheap amusement on my account.

After that I decide to pretend it has not happened indefinitely.


	23. Spymasters

A/N: Thank you for your patience and feedback! Both are greatly appreciated.  
Brynn

x

Spymasters 

x

"Severus, I am so worried…" Molly tells me the first thing when I arrive on Thursday. She moves to take the case of fresh potions I have brought for her eldest son from my hands, but I have none of it.

"Good evening," I tell her tonelessly and make to pass by her, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. As opposed to when her husband did that, I feel like incurring some kind of irreversible Dark curse on the limb… worse than William's.

"Harry said there was going to be another attack. Is he still having visions?"

"No." Which is not completely true. Potter has not had a vision straight from the Dark Lord since the beginning of the school year, although it is quite possible that he has had some from Nagini, until Halloween. Then the connection between the rings ceased… speaking of which, I have not taken it off yet. As much as its presence constantly vexed me in the beginning, I have become so used to it that I completely forgot to get rid of it.

"Then how does he know these things?"

Because he has the Malfoy house elves spy on the Death Eaters, but that is Potter's secret. I will certainly not betray that confidence just to assuage Molly's fears.

"He has his methods."

I shake off the hand and walk on towards the stairs.

"Severus!" she exclaims exasperatedly. I ignore her. She is not the only one worried about Potter, and I am doing my best to keep that boy alive. "I don't want him anywhere near here! He should be in school!"

I scoff and half-turn to glare at her.

"He protects your children, woman!" I am angry on Potter's behalf. It is the same question and the same answer, over and over and over… _ad absurdum_. They request that he fights the war, but refuse to let him fight the battles… "He has saved them from werewolves and from vampires, and before that from a basilisk and dementors and Death Eaters, so leave him alone!"

She gapes at me as if I have gone mad. Maybe I have, too. I certainly am not the one to judge my own sanity objectively. Is this something that should make me angry? She wants to wrap Potter in cotton and pretend that everything is fine and dandy, but it is not and the boy knows it… better than she does, I am sure.

"I am going to check on your son."

x

William is not alone, though this time the company is not Potter. The door is closed, but within the empty halls sound carries well even through the layer of wood.

"Bill… son, you know me better than anyone."

I suppose it is a bad time to interrupt. I should give them privacy, but the two eldest Weasley men form such a tantalising mystery… Besides, as Potter once suggested, my sense of propriety _is_ rather atrophied.

"I doubt that, dad."

"You are not so different from me," Arthur insists. There is a while of silence, which I spend rereading the etiquette on the case, which has been used and reused too many times for me to remember what was stored within originally. It appears to have been a Fever-reducing potion, not top quality, but at least guaranteed to work and not poison the patient.

"You might see yourself in me, dad," William says plaintively, "but that doesn't mean we actually _are_ alike." Oh, but they are, in certain ways. Much more than the young man realises. In other ways, they are so different that it is hardly believable.

Arthur sighs – not quite defeated, but surrendering the argument.

"Do you love him?" he asks. My eyebrows rise without a conscious input from my mind.

"What?!" William exclaims, echoing my thoughts. Last time I have noticed, he was entangled with the Delacour heiress… very well, that is not quite accurate. I merely _refuse_ to acknowledge any other option.

I either miss Arthur's reply, or it was not voiced.

"No. No, I don't," William states resolutely.

Too resolutely.

"Are you sure?"

There is silence… followed by a quiet admission of "No."

"Oh, Bill…"

"It doesn't matter, dad." But that is a lie. It does matter to him – I can hear that much in his voice. If what I suspect is correct…

Rather insensitively, I kick on the door with the toe of my shoe. I do not want to hear about William's relationship with Potter, real or dreamt-up. I am only here to deliver the potions, instruct the patient on how to use them and rewrap the gauze.

"Come in," William calls. When I kick again, instead, Arthur opens the door for me.

"Thank you," I say in a voice that conveys that I consider what he did a basic courtesy and hardly worth wasting words over.

"Hello, Professor." I nod to the bed-ridden man and set the case on his bedside.

"I'll go," Arthur states, before I begin the lecture. "Severus, there is going to be a full Order meeting on Sunday mid-morning. Harry has warned us of another attack." I gesture my acknowledgement of the information and open the case to bring out a vial of ugly yellowish colour. "Albus isn't going to be there – he has to be present in Wizengamot."

I do not know why he told me _that_, but I suppose that he had his reasons. If nothing else, than to warn me that Lupin was going to have more authority than he ever should have been given at his disposal.

"Bye, Bill. Think about what I told you."

Then he is gone, leaving me with the man despise and respect so much that the contrary feelings make my head hurt.

x

I use my free Friday afternoon to drop in on Garton again. She has not installed the fourth defensive curse yet. It might have originally been just a provocation, or her kind of a joke, but I cannot imagine her not considering it a good idea.

"I am out here, Professor," she calls from somewhere that, surprisingly, is not her office. I find her sitting on the porch, barefoot, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She is, predictably, smoking. "Two visits in as many weeks," she remarks, tapping off the ash. "I feel loved."

I suppose replying 'no reason, really' would qualify for her book of reasons to cut ties with humanity. Speaking of which, it does not surprise me that there is a well-read, dog-eared copy of Human, All Too Human on the wooden steps next to her.

"What do you want now? Your little Saviour's been found – what are you looking for here?"

She seems to have a bad day. I better not stay too long. Likewise, there would be no point in asking how she knows about Potter's reappearance.

"There is an Order meeting scheduled for Sunday, eleven o'clock a.m. Dumbledore will not be in attendance. The security is shoddy at best and in any case, I can vouch for you to the people who might notice you do not belong there."

She scowls at me and angrily throws her cigarette stub into a puddle on the ground.

"I told you I want nothing to do with the war! Get out-"

"You said you wanted to meet him," I interrupt her. "I cannot simply bring him here; he is under surveillance at all times." Except when he escapes or hides, which is altogether too often. "To meet him, you will have to go there. You do not have to talk to anyone, nor be introduced to anyone. Just observe…" Then she can come home and have a laugh about how the 'hope' of the Light side is a bunch of idiots who do not know one end of their wand from the other.

"I'll tell you Sunday morning," she grumbles. "Now go away and leave me be."

x

I decide to forgo travelling to Grimmauld Place on Saturday, knowing that I would just have to return the next day. Garton, contrary to what I have expected, steps out of my private Floo at half past nine and brushes the soot off her over-sized coat onto my carpet.

"I'm going," she says simply. It astounds me how much she must want to meet Potter (or do whatever her secondary motivations are) to brave the presence of so many people at once, especially when she cannot vocalise her displeasure whenever fancy strikes her.

I recover a slip of parchment I took from one of Potter's friends, take off several layers of Glamours and a Transmogrifying Charm and let her read it. I was supposed to destroy it, but I try to avoid wasting resources. When Garton nods, I reapply the spells and hide the thing away. Then we spend about half an hour haggling over the wording of a vow of non-adversity I need her to swear before I can take her to Headquarters.

At ten we floo into the upstairs drawing room to by-pass Molly, who would demand to be introduced to any female in my company, never mind that she had the appeal of a hag and acted slightly more hostile than one.

We dodge Shacklebolt and Lupin by taking the back staircase, unused but for Potter's clique when they have lived here in the summer. The stairs are rickety and I have to bend forwards to avoid spider webs hanging from the ceiling. Apparently, my room is not the only place that escapes Molly Weasley's attentions.

William is alone. Garton scowls at him without a word for the duration of a quick examination, to which the man reacts with puzzlement. She nicks a quill from the nightstand, considers it for a while, and eventually places it in the front pocket of her coat. William gapes at her as though he thought she was certifiable and then smiles, which makes Garton more annoyed then she was before.

"Do not worry about William, Professor" I tell her before she does something that I would regret. "He has met enough real eccentrics to recognise a fake."

"I don't require him to _acknowledge_ my _supposed_ eccentricity," she growls back. "I want to make the idiots leave me alone."

"You could try splotches of ink," William suggests casually, pulling on his gloves. "And sweets; those are requisite."

I fail to suppress a chuckle. It is a pity that I have not had a chance to converse with William before this calamity. I shall have to take time to examine whether the cynicism is genuine (which I do not truly doubt) and what does it stem from. Garton seems to actually _not_ dislike this Weasley.

"Do you have some?" she asks relatively mildly.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out a Deluxe package of W.W.W.'s Canary Creams. She lifts her hand in a universal gesture to ward of evil. William smirks; I have to laugh again. Strangely enough, Garton does not take it personally.

"Name's Catherine," she says to him.

"William, though I listen considerably better to 'Bill'."

I can hardly believe my eyes.

"Bill, you do know the Professor's little… _protégé_, don't you."

I glare at her as my mood suddenly drops. William is the last one I want to hear talking about Potter. I do not want to think about what he might know and how he has found out. Barring that, I could maim the woman for the indecent pause and emphasis she felt necessary to put into the sentence.

Strangely enough, William does not catch on – or pretends not to catch on.

"Protégé?"

"Harry Potter," she clarifies impatiently. William does not seem affected by the revelation.

"Really?" he inquires evenly. "Well, yes, I know him. A bit. I mean, my little brother is his best mate…"

"What's so special about him?" Garton asks.

Something flashes in Williams eyes and he draws himself straighter. Even knowing that he does not have the full use of his hands yet, he is quite intimidating. The man plays with raw magic regularly – he diffused a Blood Ritual, for Morgana's sake! Either he or his brother are capable of wandless coercion that works on magical creatures, too… And, as if that was not enough, he has Potter protecting him.

I would offer myself to the Dark Lord with a red and gold ribbon around my neck before offending William Weasley… which does not make my jealousy any easier to deal with.

"What's that to you?" he asks, keeping his tone even with almost visible effort.

Garton shrugs.

"Never you mind, Bill."

"I don't. Leave Harry alone."

He gestures us quite forcefully to the door. I comply before he gets truly irritated and momentarily forgets that I have recently saved his life…

x

"You have some serious competition there…" Garton remarks, seating herself strategically in a chair that is not in the front row, but with view that encompasses the entire room, close enough to the door and at the same time not far from the corner I will be lurking in during the meeting. It is not my preferred spot, but I will make do. She looks positively gleeful. "He's very good looking… and younger…"

"And engaged," I growl.

Garton raises an eyebrow and gives me an amused smirk.

"Already?"

I stare at her dispassionately. That insinuation was nowhere near as witty as to make me appreciate the humour despite the situation.

"To a French half-_veela_ _female_," I clarify.

"Not the faithful type, is he?"

I frown. William is a Weasley. They are all the loyal, devoted, faithful types. There is nothing… but it does not look like nothing. Even Delacour has caught on to it.

"I would not know about that," I reply stiffly. Her response is, thankfully, not to be voiced, for at this moment the door opens and the earliest Order members file in. There is few of them, and most of them I do not know by name, but our conversation was not for any strange ears, indiscriminately.

At eleven the shindig starts. Lupin is presiding, Moody is absent and Potter is sitting opposite me, virtually plastered over William, whispering into his ear and having his ear whispered into. I feel murderous.

And pathetic.

I cannot even force myself to listen to the reports, because all that is being said is that no one knows anything, riddled with excuses _why_ no one knows anything. Finally, Potter nudges William, who stands up in the middle of Sinead Fawcett's explanation of how her employer requires her to work overtime on Friday evenings.

"Voldemort-" William pauses for the obligatory few seconds of shudders and angry exclamations. I am quite proud to be among those few who endure the sound of the name stoically.

"-is amassing his forces for an attack on Wednesday or Thursday, depending on the weather. He is aiming for a target near Dunstable in Bedfordshire."

He stonily stands through another round of exclamation, until a question without actual point, but with a lot of conviction and decibels behind it drowns the others out.

"How do you know?"

William looks distinctly unhappy about having to disclose that, but since he has been sequestered within the house for the past week, and everybody knows it, he has to cite the source of the information.

"It was found out by the spy network headed by Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

I notice that Garton looks surprised – apparently her all-encompassing knowledge did not encompass Potter being a spymaster. He is not actually one – he only has house elves report to him – but it certainly does sound impressive for a sixteen-year-old.

"What is he after?" Lupin, quite uncaring about the steadily rising background noise, deigns to speak.

"The Whipsnade Wild Animal Park."

The statement is met with an explosion of sound.

"Why a Zoo? Has he gone totally loony?"

"It makes no sense!"

"Malfoy's pulling our leg!"

Garton leans back in the chair and pointedly stares at the ceiling, while William sits down next to Potter again.

"Shut up!" a high-pitched voice shouts. At least as many people wince, as did at the mention of the Dark Lord's name.

William takes advantage of the silence to whisper something to Potter, who nods, but does not look at him, for he is too busy watching Garton, who…

I can hardly believe what is happening: Garton gets so fed up with the perpetual idiocy that she actually _stands up in front of a group of people and speaks_.

"It _does_ make sense…" she states evenly, with an undercurrent of derision for her audience. She looks more like an scholar than like an eccentric, but her intelligence and attitude still cows people into intellectual submission. "The number of purebloods that died in the July Battle of Hogwarts is alarming. Those who bought into Big Bastard's racist fanaticism have been eradicated, and those who survived are unlikely to join him after such a defeat, so he's got to search for a new support base. He can't simply abandon his pureblood supremacist propaganda, lest he be seen as a turncoat and, again, unlikely to sway followers."

It is balm on my ears to hear intelligent speech in this room, after all the drivel that has been spouted in the past hour. The relief is short-lived, however, because morons never stay quiet for long.

"He wants to use _creatures_?"

Of course he does.

"What sort of creatures are housed in Whipsnade?" Potter asks. He receives several disapproving looks from people around the room. There are no thanks for gathering useful intelligence, no respect for a fellow warrior, no consideration of his skill and experience.

Garton, on the other hand, looks marginally less sour – which is to be anticipated, since someone who is not her has just been made unhappy.

"You'd have to find records on that, _young_ man," she tells him. Somehow her expression conveys how satisfied with herself – and Potter – she is. "But when I last visited, there was a couple of Welsh Greens, and an entire swarm of little swamp dragons. Cute most of the time, but in battle they might cause Bedlam," she sounds a bit too cheerful about that. Either way, hearing Garton say 'cute' is hilarious. "They have dozens of smaller creatures, mostly harmless. I've heard their only harpy died…"

"We need those records," Shacklebolt interrupts

"Can you secure a copy in your official capacity?" Garton asks him. That is blurring the lines between observing an Order meeting and actively participating a bit much. It seems that she cannot help herself when she sees a jigsaw – she simply _needs_ to find out how the pieces fit together best.

"As soon as possible, please, Kingsley," Lupin commands after Shacklebolt acquiesces. His words (or tone) for some reason incense Potter; William does what he can to calm him down and relays for him.

"We need a map of the location – preferably blueprints – map of the surroundings, layout of Muggle and wizarding enclosures, which creatures are housed where, how many guards are there, security system…" After another brief whispered communication he adds: "And it would be beneficial if you could get pictures of the sites."

Somehow it makes me feel better to know that they have been speaking about matters pertaining to the war, the Order and Voldemort. It is none of my business, but _that_ does not help at all.

Garton sits down, leering at the silent wizards and witches, once again reassured of her superiority. It looks like Potter is enjoying himself as well, and it has nothing to do with any of the Weasleys. All in all, it has turned out to be a successful morning.

x

After the meeting, several of the senior members retreat into the kitchen to discuss the course of action they are going to take. Garton wants to leave, but she refuses to go alone and I _need_ to know what the idiots are going to do. Fortunately, Nymphadora is there with them, so there is someone willing to speak to me who understands that not all decisions made by Lupin are the correct ones. The girl has an appalling taste in men, but otherwise she is fairly tolerable.

"I didn't see him coming in," Garton comments after twenty minutes of silence. "He _sneaked_ into the room. He's one of the few here with half a working brain, and they don't even listen to him!"

I know her well enough to be certain that she had no intention to actually compliment Potter. It happened inevitably while she insulted the collective intelligence of the Order. I have expected her to do so, although I thought she would have waited to get home before she started. Perhaps it has been the long wait. Garton can be patient, but only unless she is angry.

"They tried to ban him from these meetings." And I was right there among them.

"And this is supposed to be tolerating him?"

Well, not exactly. This is admitting their inability to keep him out.

"They do not have much choice. Aside from that, he and Draco Malfoy are the ones to collect the majority of useful intelligence."

"Malfoy?" she spits out and grimaces with distaste. I fully understand the sentiment. I have much worse memories than the previous Head of the House's head as bloody mash.

"Not many people like Malfoys-"

"Not many people get paid to pretend to like them," she corrects me. That might have been the truth about Thanatos, Abraxas and Lucius, but it is undeniable that the times have changed.

"Potter has been remoulding Draco into an actual person."

"You're incredibly obstinate, Professor," Garton says, shaking her head and staring somewhere past the wall. "You call the Malfoy 'Draco', but your… _protégé_ is still 'Potter'?" There is the obnoxious emphasis again, as though Potter was something more than my student. Perhaps she has taken it to her head that it hurts or aggravates me when she implies something like that…

The door opens and a violet-haired individual steps in.

"Are you talking or fencing? Because I would hate to get cut by some rapier wit…" Nymphadora pouts when neither of us laughs at her joke and busies herself with checking the room for listening spells – which both I and Garton have done before we spoke. Satisfied, she shuts the door and casts a Silencing Spell.

"What do you want?"

She sticks out her tongue at me (which Garton seems to appreciate) and seats herself on the edge of the desk.

"They're sending Harry back to Hogwarts on Monday. They want to keep him as far from Whipsnade as poss-"

"Cretins," Garton and I say unison. The colourful Auror looks like she wants to giggle, but, thankfully, refrains, while my ever-cheerful associate takes the chance to rant about the Order's incompetence. "Do they _wish_ for needless casualties?"

"Scarily, no," Nymphadora informs her, making her eyes bulge out (more than a normal human could), which I find disturbing.

Garton shakes her head in resignation and stands up from the table.

"Make sure he gets there, Professor," she tells me, as though I would not have done that either way. "And do give him my floo address."

I am so shocked by her mock-casual statement that I do not realise she has left until after the door is shut and Nymphadora is leering at me.

"What?!" I bark at her. Her grin widens.

"I always thought that you needed someone to… moderate your temperament. She won't be able to do that."

Garton and I?! That is just… preposterous! No way! Not if I was strictly heterosexual and we were the last two people on the planet! Death is preferable!

"Scat!"


	24. Casualties

A/N: Sorry for the delay! _Metamorphosis_ has finally caught up, so enjoy the new chapter! Some much requested Harry-Severus interaction!

HentaiZaru: Nope, not really. The reasons are explained fully in _Metamorphosis_. Bill had felt affection for Harry since they met, and a lot happened during the past three weeks in Egypt… Besides – what better way to show just how much Severus cares about Harry?

Brynn

x

Casualties 

x

On Monday the atmosphere in Hogwarts is indigestible. The students have somehow found out about Potter's impeding return and the anticipation is thicker than Creevey's potion, which is to say _very_ thick (only slightly less than Creevey's skull).

He for the first time appears at the lunch. Draco and Ginevra climb all over him. I watch on, feeling irritated with myself for the insistent nagging urge to cast some very unsociable hexes on the two children, undiminished by the awareness that Potter is not interested in either of them.

By the next morning Draco does not acknowledge Potter's existence, Granger does so only to glare at him, Ronald pretends that it does not concern him and Ginevra acts like nothing at all is strange. Potter, as if following the trend, also changes. He becomes quieter and quieter until people do not realise when he is in the room.

Information regarding the Order of the Phoenix and its plans is confined to the staff room, brought into the castle solely for the purpose of informing the staff of the precautions taken before the battle. The weather forecast expects storms on Wednesday and the general opinion is that the attack will happen of Thursday.

Wednesday comes and passes with no sign of hostilities reported from the assigned outposts. Moody has still not come on board, so I accept the information with considerable constraint. The pre-emptive gathering is scheduled for nightfall, which means that I am forced to cancel sixth-year double Potions class. I write Potter a short message with the hopes that he will decide to charge in like a proper Gryffindor and rain destruction on Dark Lord's army.

Leaving the gathering spot near Dunstable, I find that Nymphadora has volunteered as my partner for the night. The glare Lupin gives me is well suffering her presence for a few hours. She has been uncharacteristically glum in the past few days. Even bothering me and suggesting disgusting things including myself and Garton, she was not nearly as vivacious as she usually is. I wonder why is that.

We are stationed at a corner next to parrots, which, I assume, is Lupin's attempt on revenge.

"Is Harry coming?" Nymphadora asks nervously when the werewolf's steps fade in the distance. She eyes a blue and yellow bird in the closest cage and attempts to imitate its colouring. Strangely enough, it does not look any wilder than her usual appearance.

"I do not know," I admit. "He knows we are here. A month ago, I would have been certain."

She sighs and turns her hair black. She has done that for all the battles I can remember. It is practical, as evidenced by her (and mine and Potter's) continued survival.

"He hasn't changed that much," she claims. "He's just… less desperate. As if there was this huge weight lifted from him…"

I think of William and the companionship Potter has found in him, the despair Potter has felt when he thought William was going to die, the accidental magic sparked by that fear that enabled William's miraculous recovery… Is that what made the difference?

But why then is the boy becoming so quiet? Why does he not want to speak to anyone, why does he isolate himself? He does not seem at all as though he felt more free.

"Do you know where they were?"

"You don't?" She seems surprised. I count yet another memo that missed me. If I got a Galleon every time…

I shake my head.

"They were in Egypt," she says quietly, while her eyes roam the darkened enclosures. They are ironically metaphoric, at least to me. That is what we are – creatures in a Zoo. So content in our cosy little artificial environment that we forget about the bars… until someone like the Dark Lord comes to shatter the illusion of peaceful reality.

Potter, William and Charles were in Egypt, alone for three weeks, in their very own enclosure, one of them weak like a baby and the other two nursing him to health. They cleared the clouds, drove away the demons, banished the despair and brought back a Potter that is just as entrancing as the one before was, but undeniably not the one I have been the first person to hold. Maybe… maybe it was the boy's final step to adulthood. He does not need somebody to depend on anymore…

"Egypt…"

"He brought back a sword," Nymphadora continues, going off on a tangent to fill the silence with something other than the ominous sounds of wildlife. "A vicious, ugly thing. It was bloodstained… he spent the first night cleaning it."

Perhaps the trip was not as idyllic as I have imagined it. Potter has, likely, once again been forced to fight for his life. No matter how far he runs, he can never escape it… not even in death. I understand why he tried to sacrifice his life… even that did not work, though, and I am selfishly not sorry at all.

"Bill has been teaching him about curse-breaking. Things that went right over my head. How to kill someone ten thousand years after you are dead… how to prevent someone ten thousand years dead from killing you. How to see without eyes and hear when dozens of echoes come from all sides… Where to strike a snake to kill it quickly and avoid getting bitten…"

Potter has a scar from basilisk fang on his left upper arm. I wonder what William had to say to that… if his fingers traced that scar and how many times… if Potter liked it…

"Curse-breaking," I repeat tonelessly. She nods.

"I don't think he wants to be an Auror anymore. I don't think he ever really wanted to be an Auror. It's not a job for him." She would know. "I think curse-breaking is… for him," she finishes. I do not have much knowledge of the subject, but I do know that it requires more than a cursory familiarity with Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. I think it also demands several languages. As far as I know, Potter speaks only English… but I would not be surprised to learn differently.

I miss Potter. Even after he has returned he is not really the Potter that has left and I, the pitiful bitter ex-Death Eater miss the boy. I think I have reached a personal all time low.

"Why?" I ask. Nymphadora smiles.

"Because everything else would bore him. After waging a war against a Dark Lord, I don't think he could get used to chasing third-class pickpockets in Diagon."

Indeed. But curse-breaking… If Potter survives to graduate, am I _ever_ going to see him again?

x

My fingers are cold. I long to keep them in my pockets to save warmth, but it is too dangerous. If someone Apparated next to us, they would not give me the time to extract my hands and wand from the folds of my cloak. So I make do with a Warming Charm that does not work nearly as well as it ought to.

Suddenly, there is a series of cracks, ironically closest to us of all the guards. Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey wards snap into existence and Nymphadora lets out a curse too foul to come from the mouth of a well brought-up woman. I silently agree to her assessment of the situation and move back to back with her, just in time to shield. Curses splatter against a half sphere of light emanating from my wand and reflect back at the casters, some of them even hitting true. Shouts sound on all the paths meeting next to the parrots' cage. Without any warning, we are suddenly in the middle of battle, Nymphadora and I surrounded by Death Eaters, who are surrounded by Order members. The bastards quickly realise that they are outnumbered and turn, almost co-ordinated, in the direction to the gates. The Order's line fails under the pressure and breaks. They run, leaving the dead and wounded behind.

The site is suddenly quiet. The animals have hushed, sensing the presence of predators. Lupin and his cronies run after the retreating enemies, hoping to catch or 'down' as many of them as possible…

Nymphadora, breathing hard and clutching a bleeding arm to her chest, turns to a rattling black-robed figure on the ground. She kicks the head, hard, flapping off the hood and shattering the mask with a single hit. It speaks of practice.

"Rodolphus…"

By the expression on the woman's face, the last surviving Lestrange will not hold that title for long. She lifts her wand, forgetting everything else. I cover her back, still, because it might do her some good to execute a bit of vengeance.

"That's for my mother…" she casts something that smacks of Darkness and makes the man's limbs twist in unnatural shapes. He screams. "And that's for my father, you bastard!" She kicks him straight into face. The heavy, hobnailed boot breaks bones and Lestrange screams again. She makes to cast again, but I grip her shoulder.

"Enough," I tell her coldly, and it seems to snap her out of the rage. She pales as she realises what she has done, but does not look like she is going to hyperventilate.

"Reducto," she says dispassionately. Lestrange finally stops screaming and dies. The silence is deafening, disturbed only by Nymphadora drawing deep, ragged breaths. I do not have a problem with her actions, but she seems to need to justify them, perhaps more to herself than to me. "They killed my parents," she gasps. "They killed… killed my parents."

It strikes me quite hard that I have not known. I have accused others of losing their heads over Potter's absence, but apparently I have been just as out of it… perhaps more. No wonder she has been less cheerful than usually…

This is where I should say that I was sorry, but it is not something I am likely to do. I did not know her parents very well, past them going to Hogwarts several years ahead of me and being supporters of the Order of the Phoenix, if not exactly members.

"The Dark Lord is going down," I say instead, sounding ridiculously certain in that statement. Nymphadora smiles.

Within fifteen minutes of the appearance of the Death Eaters, it is all over.

x

"Severus."

I turn at the sound of the deep, raspy voice. There is only one being that can enter my quarters with such ease and without me noticing.

"Baron."

I put my glass on the desk with a click, trying to pretend that it was not alcohol which I have just drunk. Only one glass, though… one glass. I will not get drunk tonight or tomorrow… I will not seek the Influence and I will not use it as an excuse for my behaviour. Even Garton does not do that…

"I have met the boy," the ghost says quietly. He looks vaguely interested in what has drawn Potter out of the castle so soon after his return. I do not recall the Bloody Baron paying attention to any non-Slytherin student before.

"Have you?" I reply, expressing none of the concern that has consumed me since this morning.

"You have not imbibed nearly enough to not care, Severus, and I am far too old for your nonchalance to hide your true emotions from me."

I scoff self-deprecatingly. I respect the Baron and I value his advice, but I believe that the dead should not seek to manipulate the living.

"I was guarding the passage to the Shack," he says. "The boy has been out – I expect somewhere near the fighting, judging by the sword he carried… and the fact that he was covered in blood."

I gulp before I can prevent myself from showing a reaction. Potter got my note. Potter went to the Whipsnade Park… He fought… Is that not what I wished for? Is that not why I sent him the note? Then why do I feel like this?

"Is he…"

"_Alright_?" the Baron asks mockingly. He laughs harshly. "He is far from _alright_, Severus. He looked like he was dead, himself. None of that blood was his, but I guarantee you he would have preferred it that way."

I catch myself first when I reach out for the doorknob. I do not remember standing up and crossing the room. I need to see him; I need to make sure that he is not wounded, despite the Baron's assurances; I need to see him for myself… see that he is alive and will remain alive for days to come…

"Don't," the ghost says simply. "Give him time. He is being watched now and I will alert you if he needs any assistance."

Much as I do not want to accept it, I concede. It would not be conductive to anything if I were to barge into the Gryffindor Tower in the middle of the night and demand to see Potter. I contend myself with cornering him tomorrow.

x

On Friday morning the castle is in mourning. It is apparent as soon as I step foot out of my quarters. The shadows seem longer, the portraits speak in hushed voices and the candles are snuffing out here and there. There are ravens perching on top of the Gryffindor Tower, which were not in sight even after the July Battle.

I am not told directly, but I absorb the information practically by osmosis while I walk past the High Table.

William Weasley is dead.

I feel suddenly cold inside, the tendrils of sorrow latching onto me and grief seeping into my bones. I wanted to speak to him, find out what made him the man he is… was. I sit down in my chair, pour myself a cup of coffee and hold it in one hand. It is hot, and while that would not bother me on any other day, it does now.

I destroy it with milk, which makes both Viridian and Oglethorpe gape at me as if a had declared love to Dumbledore and started reciting poetry in the middle of the Great Hall. The Gryffindor table is missing its most prominent occupants. I think of the Baron's words: Potter, carrying a sword, covered in blood but apparently uninjured, returning from battle… wishing he was not. Was he there when William died? Has he seen it? Has he tried to save him?

I suddenly hate myself; the black, sharp, burning emotion churns in my stomach. I know that it was not my jealousy that caused this, but I feel guilty for having envied William the little affection from Potter he had the time to enjoy. A month – that was all. And I despised him for it. A damned month of… of what? Of giving Potter a reason to live just to take it away? Gods damn all Gryffindors!

I stand up so rapidly that the cup turns over. Murky liquid spills on the tablecloth and drips on the stone floor. I glare at the setting, glare at the staff and students, who seem to notice very quickly that there is something wrong, turn on my heel and stalk out of the room.

Damn them.

Where _is_ Potter?

I return to the dungeons, not by my regular route, but using the secret passages I know to avoid all bothersome students, contemplating all the occasions when Potter risked his life to save some of the Weasleys and how he must feel now that he has finally failed…

"Professor?"

I halt rapidly. My robe swings and comes to rest around my calves. It is him. He is not locked somewhere, hiding from the world, contemplating another suicide attempt…

I turn to face him. He does not look nearly as grim or desperate as I have expected, merely… sad. It is a deep sadness, but, despite not being suppressed, not dictating his actions. He even smiles, just a little, but the expression is genuine and more reassuring than anything else I can imagine.

"Potter." My voice is harsher than I intend it to be. "What do you want?"

He takes a deep breath and lifts a small black leather suitcase into my view.

"I realise that this is irregular, sir, but I wanted to ask if you could store a couple of things for me in your quarters. I don't want to keep this in the dorm."

He speaks so lightly… as if nothing worse than a failed test has happened to him. William's death has struck _me_ hard, harder than any since the massacre of my Slytherins during the summer holidays, and here Potter stands, acting all composed and serene… Were it not for the Baron's words, I would have believed that he has finally lost his sanity.

"What kind of 'things', Potter?" I ask suspiciously.

"Books," he replies simply. I definitely did not expect that. Dark Artefacts, Light Artefacts, someone's dead body, even _himself_… perhaps. But not something so mundane.

"Are these books-"

"Legal," he cuts in. "All are legal." That is very nice, but not particularly important to me, past knowing whether to ward them against Dumbledore's inspection or not bother. I want to know _why_ is he asking me, when he has an army of people willing to jump at his every word.

"You are correct, Potter. This _is_ irregular."

He sighs and lets his hands down. The suitcase is apparently heavier than it looks. Finally, there is a sign of weariness from him. A discreet observation discovers that he wears a Glamour, but it is too powerful for me to see through it without breaking it. As it is, he has already noticed that I am aware of it.

"I realise I'm asking for special treatment, sir, but the kids all have their places where they can stash things and parents to look after them. I don't have anywhere." The logical conclusion is that Black left the Grimmauld Place to Lupin after all. That Potter would not feel welcome there is disconcerting, especially since he had no objections against living there in August.

"Why do you not ask the Weasleys?"

He briefly looks at the ceiling and the next breath he draws is louder and more painful than those before. I grimace, realising in hindsight that it probably was not the most sensitive thing to say… but these situations are unfamiliar to me. I am not – nor do I ever intend to become – used to tiptoeing around someone to spare their sensibilities.

"Potter?"

"They were Bill's," he says quietly, but his voice remains steady. I scowl.

"How did you get them?" I ask darkly. I cannot believe I am accusing Harry Potter of stealing from one of his dead friends.

"Charlie gave them to me. It's…" he pauses, obviously unaware of how he holds the suitcase closer, touching it with as much of his body as possible short of embracing it. "…sort of an unofficial agreement."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake…" I am rapidly becoming frustrated with him, with the situation, with my own confusion and bitterness. "Alright, Potter. Bring it here."

"Thank you, sir," He follows me to the entrance to my office. "And I wanted to thank you for the note yesterday."

Lares and Penates, spare me his gratitude. Apart from being the one least worthy of it, it makes me abhor myself yet more. Were it not for the note, would he have been there? Would William have died? Another good intention has been added to the pavement of my road to Hell.

"Think nothing of it," I say, feigning casualness with proficiency gained from years of practice. "I disagree with the Headmaster often enough, but this time it was Lupin acting like an idiot. The Order needed you there."

"I know." I stare at him as he puts the suitcase on my desk, his fingers sliding over the leather for one last time before he faces me again.

I cannot believe he has let me insult Lupin to his face. Something really heinous must have happened between Potter and the werewolf, something bigger than just non-disclosure of the Order's plans… but it is not mine to inquire about.

"You helped," I tell him instead, despite not having any idea whether that is true. I do not doubt it, though – he is always useful in battles. I have not seen much more than a total chaos, Nymphadora killing Rodolphus Lestrange and dead parrots strewn on the ground. I have not even known that we have lost somebody out there until breakfast.

"I know," he states factually.

"We kept the swamp dragons from the Dark Lord," I expand on my statement. I have been aware of that much – the Dark Lord gained no magical animals from yesterday's raid. He lost several Death Eaters, and those who returned to him were those who ran the fastest. "_And_ we had… minimal losses." I am aware I am driving a stake into the boy's heart and it pains me to do so. He, though, takes it all calmly.

"Nevertheless, thank you, sir," he repeats, replying to my unvoiced train of thought. He turns to leave, but pauses before he has touched the doorknob. "Are you coming to the memorial service tomorrow?"

I blink. I have not been aware of a memorial service yet. I have no desire to attend the gathering, but, on the other hand, it seems somehow different when it is the young man whose life I have saved little over a week ago being remembered.

"I do not know," I reply truthfully. It is on such a short notice, and even if I was invited, there has hardly been time to inform me.

"Come," he pleads. "I don't want to… go alone."

I lean against the wall because for a moment it feels as though my legs could not support me. I have resigned myself to the distance between Potter and I growing back after he has returned from his excursion to Egypt. It has not yet occurred to me (though, admittedly, I did not exactly have time to think about it) that William's death might make him turn to me again. I would have expected him to seek comfort from Charles – he is said to be exceptionally skilled with all sorts of creatures, not just dragons…

"I doubt I will be welcome, even if the entire Order was invited-"

"It won't be," Potter confirms. I thought that would be the case. "Come anyway. I need chaperoning, don't I?" Yes, he does. A clever way of dragging me alone. He wants me to go, maybe even needs me there. I do not even consider refusing.

"Very well."

"It's at seven a.m. tomorrow, on the High Chiltern Meadow."

Why so early? It is highly unusual. Which of the Weasleys is in charge of the ceremony? I am tempted to ask if he is certain, but I know he would make sure. There is something not normal about either William or Charles, or possibly both of them, which I do not know about, but which has resulted in such a severe break of tradition. I refrain from inquiring, though.

"Meet me here at six."

He does not ask why so early. I have seen him at the funeral in August and I intend to make sure that this time he looks the part of a Head of two families to pay proper respect to the deceased.

"Thank you, sir."

It is getting rather repetitive at this point, so I wave him out and go to find a place where I could stash the suitcase.


	25. The Dead Man

A/N: Really don't have much to say. Thanks everybody who reviewed, though there weren't many of you this time. Hopefully this chapter inspires you to write more feedback… so long as I know you like it, though, I'm a happy author. Cheers!

Brynn

x

The Dead Man 

x

The Weasleys are gone from the castle, and Potter does not resurface again until five to six the next morning, when he comes knocking on my door. He is wearing strange clothing, complete with the infamous sword, of which I see only the scabbard and therefore cannot add my judgment of the weapon to Nymphadora's. Either way, he carries it with naturalness that suggests that he can use it just as well, if not better, than the Gryffindor's sword.

He stoically endures my artistic efforts to make him into a semblance of an upstanding member of the wizarding society (of which my idea is only sketchy, which might explain the less than desirable result) and then I inform him that the Headmaster is still being uncooperative, and therefore we are forced to play hide and seek with the Order.

Whether it is luck or skill, we reach the High Chiltern Meadow unobserved. We arrive as the first guests, preceded only by Charles, who is sitting on the cold Earth, waiting for the Sun to rise. Potter whispers something to him, to which Charles reacts by catching his hands.

"I'm glad you came," the man says. He sounds devastated yet at the same time determined. It is a curious contrast; he seems to have simply disallowed himself to submit to the grief.

"I couldn't have stayed away," Potter replies fiercely. I have not heard that tone in such a long time it feels like years… it sends shiver down my spine. "Not if they forbid me, not if they Stunned me, bound me, broke my legs…"

I gasp and he falls silent, as if he has forgotten that I was there.

"We'll be standing on the other side unless you need us," he informs Charles and walks several dozen yards uphill, before turning to the East, waiting for the Sun just like the Weasley does. I catch up to him, feeling instinctively that I do not belong to the other group, the one that is yet to arrive. He speaks, softly, but when I strain my ears I can understand. It is actually a _prayer_.

"O blinding light!  
In face of Ra  
We close our eyes  
And pray

You end the night  
O Sun! O Ra!  
So blinding comes  
The day…"

x

I endure the whole process, which starts at sunrise, feeling nothing but strange emptiness and regret that I have not known the man who inspires such attendance – despite Charles' efforts to keep the ceremony as small as possible – better.

A long line of mourners, including Potter, passes by the future pyre, saying their farewells, some privately, some for everyone to hear. Potter's would have been the only one to interest me, but his is one of those spoken too quietly to hear… it is all very emotional and extremely uncomfortable, especially when I catch myself thinking of what I could 'tell William'. The only thing that occurs to me, however absurd the concept is, is to promise to take care of Potter to the best of my abilities – which have been proven repeatedly not up to the task.

Then they burn him, and Potter looks on, breathing deeply. For a while I suspect he is trying to stop himself from crying, but there are no sniffs and no wetness in his eyes. He must be conducting a different kind of ritual, something on a metaphysical level that he hopes to honour William Weasley with.

It seems to work for him, just like the prayer before did.

A breeze lifts and scatters the ash that is all that remains of the young man and Potter walks forth, not appearing to be aware of moving. He is mere feet from the scorched stone when e suddenly snaps back to reality and jumps to the side.

A fireball makes a dent into the stony bed. Potter is, fortunately, unharmed, by I am already aiming my wand at the attacker – the loudest wailing female of them all – the Delacour heiress.

She is as ugly with her visage distorted by the bird-like features as she is normally beautiful, and screams like a banshee.

"You were not supposed to go zere! If you stayed…"

"Don't you dare blame Harry, you ignorant Xanthippe!" Charles growls, unabashedly using his elbows to make his way through the rapidly thickening crowd of observers. It is disgraceful to act like this at a memorial service, but Charles' righteousness honours him whereas Delacours fit merely makes her look the egoistical bitch she is. "Had he not been there, more of us would have died," Charlie adds more calmly and finally manages to free himself of the group of people. I recognise Delacour's expression – I know that emotion intimately. It is a jealous rage of a scorned lover – she must have perceived the 'closeness' between Potter and William as a personal offence (which it was) and threat (of which I am not so certain – William never voiced any intention to cancel their betrothal).

"'ow can you defend 'im?" she snarls at Charlie: "Bill was your brozzer-"

Potter, face distorted in anger, reaches for his sword. Three seconds later I stand next to him and catch his hand before he can do something he would regret. As shameful as this argument is, killing would be a much worse deed to mark William' passing.

"Yes, he was," Charles says calmly, as if she had not insulted him. "And I know that whatever happened out there, he laid his life for something he believed in with his whole heart." Potter looks struck. I m already forming an idea about what has happened – exactly what the boy predicted: yet another person jumped in front of him to take a lethal blow so that he could live and defeat the Dark Lord.

It should have been me. I promised him it would be me… I feel at the same time as if I somehow betrayed both Potter and William and too grateful for words to the dead man.

"And no matter how much you scream," Charles continues, giving Potter's emotional state only a cursory acknowledgement, "no matter how much you try to assign guilt, it _will not bring him back_."

"'e-" she points her finger at Potter, "-probably killed Bill 'imself! 'e's a jealous little boy-"

Potter grimaces, but with pain rather than anger, and with visible strain stops himself from killing the half-woman, half-monster on the spot. He could, but something inside him, that part that makes the greatest difference between him and Tom Riddle, makes him straighten and stare Delacour in the eye, doing _nothing_.

The entire congregation watches with horror and disgust as Charles picks the half-_veela_ up by her neck. He holds her high in the air, choking her, reacting to her accusation of Potter with ferocity that was completely absent after the previous insults. He does not look exactly human, but that tends to happen to all wizards especially close to magic or those who have an inordinate amount of power at their disposal.

There is silence all around, mourners watching with round eyes as the fiancée of the deceased is close to being murdered by his brother. Only Delacour's parents stare at the ground, ashamed of their daughter's outburst, understanding of Charles's fury.

"You blind egoistical bitch," Potter whispers, but the overall silence allows the front line of onlookers to hear him. "If you suggest something like this ever again… if you even hint at it… I'll kill you without a second thought and never look back."

He steps away from me, away from the touch that I have hoped would ground him. I have seen him like this before and it made me want to submit to him then, which is the only reason why I am capable of concealing my reaction to him. The rest of the congregation takes unconscious steps backwards, away from a person they could never hope to stand against. This is the _Saviour_, and even though Potter has not intended for them to see, now they know. They will tell their parents and children, siblings and spouses and friends… Potter will stop being a myth and become a legend.

When almost everyone thinks that there will be no avoiding the killing – not even Delacours parents dare protest, cowering pathetically from Charles's wrath and Potter's power – it is a small girl that saves the day. She walks up to the trinity, unafraid as only a Gryffindor could be.

"Monsieur Weezley," she speaks, slowly, searching for the words in a language foreign to her, "s'il vous plaît, let Fleur down. She says very stupid zings, but she is very sad."

Potter is moved by the words. He puts his hands on Charles's and guides him to set the half-_veela_ on the ground. She finds support in the closest-standing relative of hers, turns away from the two men she has offended so grievously and remains silent.

It is a sad end to a sad matter – I conclude, catching up to Potter and Charles, who are already walking away.

x

The breakfast is long over when I step out of my office again. My intention of securing a cup of real, hot coffee before I have to spend any length of time attempting to decipher the scrawl of several classes of blockheads and not blow up my dungeon when I do manage it, only to realise the quality of the drivel (my weekends usually pass like this – and then they have the gall to wonder why my disposition is less than sunny) is thwarted when I spy Potter and Charles walking towards the Entrance Hall.

True to my nature, I follow at what I deem to be a safe distance. Cup of coffee and hundreds of feet of parchment destroyed and nobly named 'essays' can wait for later.

The pair walks towards the exit quite decisively and my pursuit remains unnoticed, since they do not bother to look around. The very small number of students present in these parts of the castle at this time of a Saturday disappears in adjacent corridors. Silence falls on the Hall, in which the low rumble of the opening wing of the front gate echoes four-fold.

Potter and Charles come to the halt at the upper step and look at the cloudless sky. I follow their line of vision, wondering what they might see there, or whether it is due some ridiculous notion like that their brother/_friend_ might be 'watching them from above'.

"Am I going to see you again?" Potter asks so quietly that I almost miss it.

Charles takes his time before he answers, and even then it is only two words and no clear decision.

"You might."

"But I'm not likely to," Potter responds evenly, betraying nothing of what he feels about the revelation.

"No…" Charles admits, incomprehensibly smiling, "no, you're not likely to."

Another strong young wizard is leaving us. We – the Order, the people willing to fight for the so-called 'Light – are growing sparse in numbers. The Dark Lords army is too, but not fast enough. Still, I cannot begrudge him the decision to save his life, faced with the tragedy of his brother's death. I never truly had anyone to mourn, but I do remember the weight of the emptiness and the never-ceding presence of the black hole when I feared Potter was lost.

"Goodbye, Peace," the boy says. "Take good care of yourself."

Charles cups Potter's cheek and then leans down – and while he is not tall, it is a long way – to put his hands on the boy's hips. Effortlessly he lifts the smaller body off the ground, pulls it against his chest and joins their mouths together. I am quite sure I am gaping, unbecoming as it is. There is such… _tenderness_, I think it could be described as. The kiss is slow and _calm_, and sends shivers down _my_ spine, very much unlike the one I saw Potter share with Draco, and not even reminiscent of the slithering jealousy I felt when watching him with William. An almost visible aura of icy grey, or maybe blue, grows around them and lingers, with wisps of it trailing in the grass, even after they separate, after Charles turns on his heel and strides away in the direction to the gates, while Potter does the mirror movements and lets the relative dusk of the Entrance Hall embrace him. Neither man acknowledges the other; there are no glances over their shoulders to steal a last glimpse of their (forever) leaving beau.

I have just had my entire theory turned on its head. I thought Potter and _William_ were the couple… or not-quite-couple. But Potter should have been affected worse than he was by the death and funeral… were William's feelings one sided? Or were all three of them _involved_? Was I just jumping to conclusions?

"Professor Snape," Potter says evenly, angling his head slightly to face my position. The air he breaths out seems coloured by the cold grey, although I intellectually know that it is only a play on my senses. How did he know I was here, anyway? Was he aware of me witnessing the parting? Did that awareness influence his actions?

"Your footsteps are quiet…" he says by way of explanation, but merely tangles me further in the enigma of his new self. Then he smiles, and though the shift of his facial muscles is minimal, the change is astounding. I have not seen Potter this content in years. "…but Charlie's are silent," he finishes, and makes to pass by me into the depths of the castle.

Something presses down on my lungs and suddenly it is hard to breath. Why does he not talk to me? I was there for him, today, yesterday and before – I have offered him comfort and companionship, I have broken rules and laws and went against direct orders for him… Is it possible that three weeks with the two Weasleys and the death of the eldest one have separated us so completely?

Does he not _need me_ anymore?

x

In the evening, through with a week's worth of students' homework, I sit in my most worn armchair and break a promise.

I take out the last surviving bottle of Alsikescotch and drink as much as I feel I need – which is more than half of it. Something hurts, and I cannot explain it. The spark in Potter's eyes, the contentment, the smile… I hate it. I hate it all… I hate Charles and Delacour, but, although I try very hard, cannot really hate William.

I do not want to have to look at Potter again, but at the same time desperately yearn to talk to him. I want to tell him… tell him that if it was my place, I would be proud of him. It is not, and I do not think he would appreciate the sentiment, but I think he has behaved admirably. He has put up with so much shit, and still grew into…

…into Potter. There are no words to describe him. I do not even try. He is someone you need to touch, need to feel and experience on your own soul before you can understand why he is so… so important. So unique.

All the descriptions are curiously empty. Today I got the feeling that he does not believe that the dead are watching over him, and therefore does not consider it worthwhile to strive to make them proud. I knew he was disenchanted, but perhaps I misunderstood the depth of _those_ emotions. At the same time I cannot stop wondering – is it possible that even the Potter I have come to know is just a fake? Could I have misjudged him so grossly twice?

For a man who prides himself for knowing so much, I truly am clueless when it comes to him.


	26. Oathbreakers

A­/N: As usually – please enjoy and review.

Brynn

x

Oath-breakers 

x

Lupin waits until Sunday to storm Hogwarts, raging about Potter's participation in Whipsnade. He yells himself hoarse at the unresponsive boy, accusing him, in a roundabout way, of almost exactly the same thing as Delacour did.

I watch from distance, unwilling to come closer because of my hangover and Lupin's volume, but still close enough to understand the words and watch Potter's expression become more and more closed off with each voiced reproach. He does not say a word, but I see the last bridges over the rift between the two of them fall apart.

How can Lupin ever call me cruel, or even just insensitive, when he does something like this? Not even his concern about the boy can excuse it… I want to scratch his eyes out and feed him his own kidneys much more than I ever wanted to hurt William, despite the fact that I wish to avoid Potter's presence as much as it is possible.

When Lupin grabs Potter's arm and drags him up the corridor, I curse myself for not listening to the last part of his rant and resolve to follow, if only to ensure that Potter will be in the shape to attend my class tomorrow. I do not understand why the boy does not protest. He could easily get rid of Lupin – I am certain of it – but something makes him endure the whole process without even speaking up. He does not defend himself.

When Lupin steers him through the door to the hospital wing I write it off as the werewolf being hysterical and, suppressing my morbid curiosity, return to my solitude.

x

"Professor, may I speak to you for a moment?" Granger asks at the end of the class. I am in a foul mood, caused by the lack of a Potter in the room, but I stop the insult on the tip of my tongue when I take in the girl's expression.

"Do make it short, Miss Granger," I say instead, though anyone with a hint of self-preservation would make a conversation with me – especially me in this mood – as short as possible.

"Sir, Harry didn't return to the dormitory yesterday. We were wondering if you knew where he is… or if something happened to him…"

I slam a stack of essays on my desk and Granger jumps. I will not do more in front of a student than that… I will control myself… I look at her, scowling. She seems scared, but that is to be expected.

I curse my damned lack of morbid curiosity. I should have known that Lupin would leave Potter in a dangerous mental state… I only hope it is a mistake I can yet undo.

"I was not aware of that. Go to your next lesson, Miss Granger, and I will investigate. Do not stick your know-it-all nose into it, is that clear?"

She nods, but I know better than to believe her. She will find a way to cause trouble, unless I manage to prevent it… but that will have to wait until the end of the next class, which consists of third-year Ravenclaws and _Hufflepuffs_, and in my current mood spells homicide…

My first steps after I banish the thirteen-year-old bumblers out of my dungeon lead to the hospital wing. I hope Pomfrey can give me some lead – at least tell me what has transpired between Potter and the blasted werewolf so that I have any idea whether Potter is likely to come back carrying a hessian sack dripping blood or if I have to look for his corpse in some secluded spot.

Pomfrey is out – likely in Headquarters, tending to Hestia Jones and Elphias Doge, who sustained injuries too serious to be cured within minutes. That there is nobody available in the case of emergency is a gross oversight, but that blame cannot be fairly placed with the medi-witch. After Delacour departed for France (where she hopefully will not be returning from), the Headmaster should have ascertained that there was at least an Apprentice nurse here, if he wanted to continue sending Pomfrey on errands without the school.

I am about to turn on the spot and go ask the ghosts, when I hear mumbling. I approach the single occupied bed on the opposite end of the wing and the words become gradually clearer… though they make no more sense.

"The Dark Lord approaches… thrice defied him… the seventh month dies… Mark him as his equal… he will have power… must die… neither can live… dies…"

The words are hauntingly familiar.

I pull the cover aside. My hands grip the frame of the bed spasmodically, because there is Potter, lying on the bed, clad in hospital pyjamas. He turns his head to look at me with wide, green, haunted eyes.

"Snape?" he gasps incredulously. His hands jerk, but he does not move far. I realise that his wrists, and probably also his ankles, are bound to the same frame as I am holding onto.

"What the fuck…" I cannot comprehend what I am seeing. This is Potter, for goodness sake… what could he have done that they bound him to a bed? Does Lupin condone this? Does Pomfrey?

"O blinding light…" he closes those wide eyes, hiding dilated pupils from view. "Oh Ra…"

"Potter!"

He jerks, tugging at the straps in vain. The beds to the left of his cover themselves with flowers. Orchids. Their colouring is definitely not natural but I am, fortunately, not exposed to them for a long time, because they immediately wither and turn to dust. Half of the hospital wing is covered with a thin layer of dark grey powder.

"Drugged…" he presses out. "Floatin'… Tests."

I take a risk and cast a Sobering Spell on him. It is especially taxing on the liver, but he should survive it.

He calms down instantly, taking deeper breaths. When his eyes open again, there is a lot more of his iris visible, but the spell obviously did not get rid completely of the effects of whatever he has been drugged with.

"You won't believe how glad I'm to see you…" he says in a muffled voice and lets his head rest on his pillow. "I'm so high on the an'sthetic that I feel like I'm flyin' even with these on…" he glares at the leather straps that bind him. I reach into my inner pocket for a scalpel, but as soon as I move toward the bindings he shakes his head.

"Don't." I glare at him. Why the Hell does he not want me to free him? "They think I need to go through all their little tests… if I 'scaped now, they would just catch me again. I'd rather it be over in one go."

I sit on the side of his bed, reluctantly put the scalpel back into its charmed holder within my pocket and, without conscious command of the action, touch the side of his face. He is covered in cold sweat. I hate Lupin so much right now… at least as much as I did after he almost killed me in our fifth year at Hogwarts. I hate him like I used to hate Black.

"What did he say to you?"

How could he have tried to excuse this? I have thought Potter ridiculous when he suggested that anyone in Hogwarts would treat him like this, and here the universe is, laughing into my face. I have for a long time detested this child, but even I have never acted like a Death Eater toward him…

Potter grimaces at what he sees wherever his mind has temporarily gone.

"He spouted a lot of meanin'less drivel and then threw my words from when I was thirteen back at me."

"Which words?"

It does occur to me that I am shamelessly taking advantage of his state, but it does not stop me. Apparently, as irrational as his sole existence makes me, I have not yet grown either weak or soft.

"That my father would not want me to become a murderer." He smirks bitterly. I would very much like to know in which situation he has told that to Lupin. It sounds much too philosophical to come from a thirteen-year-old child (which I am painfully aware of, since I have very recently yelled at a room full of them), but at the same time it stinks of naivety own to children.

"Your father is dead," I remark, quite needlessly. After yesterday, I do not think Potter is at all bothered about the dead having a good opinion of him.

"That's one thing… 'nother is that he'd probably like me to stay alive…" It is a pragmatic approach and, indeed, much likely to keep him alive than the one Lupin is attempting to force upon him. "'n…"

I look at him, realising that he has thought about adding something, but either changed his mind or it has wondered off again. He might not even remember this conversation tomorrow.

"And?"

He closes his eyes yet again and I have to lean closer to understand his mumbling.

"An' I fancy m'self a killer, not a murd'rer, but I s'ppose for some'n that diff'rence'd be technical." He yawns and bends his knees and much as his binds allow him to. "Stay for a while? If you're real, I mean…"

I nod. I do not have anything better to do anyway, although I might land myself in trouble if Pomfrey emerges, because I doubt I would be able to refrain from calling her up on this travesty.

"Drugs're pretty confusin'…" Potter mutters on. "Wanna me stay put… 't feels like I'm dead an' there's no one there an' I think that maybe I am… Keep lookin' for Bill, y'know…" The Sobering Spell must be wearing off. I wonder what he has been fed – if it were my potions, they must have been mixed together. I do not recall ever brewing something that would have effects like these, especially not for a school nurse to use on the students.

"William is dead," I remind him. It is comprehensible that he would forget – he has not yet had time to come to terms with the man's death-

"That's why I look for him!" Potter explains. "Wouldn't make sense 'spectin' some'dy 'live when I'm dead, would it? You aren't dead, are you? I'd hate if you died…"

That feeling is more than mutual, no matter how angry at him I am.

"Try and sleep, Potter."

"You a ghost?" he asks in a childlike voice. I hate it. I hate seeing him like this, but I know better than to disrespect his decision… I will be checking on him regularly, though. They will not do anything worse to him that they have already done…

"No," I reply belatedly. "I am not. Do I look _transparent_?"

He laughs. It is a totally absurd sight.

"Sort of. An' very colourful… well, for you…"

"Sleep," I tell him. He does so, and I longingly think of the other half of the last bottle of Alsikescotch… but I need to remain sober tonight.

x

Pomfrey is obviously aware of my frequent visits of the hospital wing but does not say anything. She pretends not to notice me after a while, past assuring herself that I do not harm Potter. The conclusion I draw from that – for I do not talk to her in the fear that I could not keep myself from harming her – is that she in fact disapproves of what is being done to the boy, but someone with higher authority has overruled her.

Since Monday, Dumbledore has joined Lupin on the list of people to execute some subtle but vicious revenge on once the Dark Lord has been dealt with (in the case I shall survive that long). I am quite successful in not announcing the intention to the whole world by scowling at him more than usual or doing something equally stupid and obvious.

On Thursday Potter is back in class and, by the way he is acting, blissfully unaware of our several conversations in the hospital wing. I am afraid that someone else had abused the opportunity and managed to implant some suggestion about obeying somebody or avoiding something into his brain while he was less than cognizant or, in the worst case, managed to brainwash him.

It appears, though, that either the Order does not condone _that_, or they did not have enough time for it in between my checking on him.

He is currently failing rather dismally at producing the last stage of Flemming Fever Draught, which is quite understandable, because his tuition in the last five weeks was sparse and even then chaotic.

I sneer at the concoction in his cauldron.

"Your technique leaves a _lot_ to be desired, Mr Potter."

He looks up for about two seconds and again turns away, to tend to the mess, as if there was any chance to salvage it. It is first then that I notice how badly his hands are shaking – no wonder that he cannot produce anything resembling the set potion. I should have thought of it – after three days spent heavily drugged, there _would_ be some repercussions…

I would have expected Pomfrey to either give him something to temper the effects, or keep him under her supervision. I suspect a political power-play, but I am too disconnected from the leadership of the Order and the management of the school to understand the particulars.

"Are we talking about desires now, Professor?" he asks, pretending nonchalance, but the hoarseness of his voice betrays him.

"Ten points," I respond shortly and continue the inspection of the potions. Granger's is, predictably, perfect.

"To or from?"

Everyone else in the room breaths in rapidly; Granger _moans_.

I take two more steps forward, which take me to Turpin's cauldron, while I decide on how to respond to that bout of insolence. It might be his way of dealing with what has been done to him, or even keeping himself straight, because I do not doubt that he would very much like to curl up on his bed (I judge by my experience with hangovers), but I will not stand for him disrespecting me in front of other students.

"Another ten points."

"Are you this passionate only about teaching, or are you like this in various fields?"

Granger moans louder in the fallen silence. Potter is begging for trouble. I grip the handle of my wand to have something to concentrate on, which is not harming the little ingrate.

"Detention," I tell him evenly. I do not want to spend more time around him than necessary, though… "With McAllister."

When there is no reaction, I look up to make sure that he has heard me… and meet a pair of expressive eyes conveying betrayal and a twisted, ugly mockery of a smile. It… hurts…

The bell announces the end of the class and in the following flurry of movement he escapes before I can say another word.

x

I consider the half a bottle of Alsikescotch left, but then decide that Potter is not as ungrateful as that. I truly believe that he would not have acted so wilfully and disrespectfully, had he remembered our conversations from when he was drugged… strangely enough, it makes it somewhat easier to deal with. At least that is what I decide on Friday evening, after Potter misses the Dark Arts lesson…

Even after more than a month without a single session, I am still thinking of them, still awaiting Potter's knock on my office door around the originally scheduled times. I am still disappointed, although not surprised, when it does not sound.

x

"Potter, stay after class," I say on Monday. There will only be a few minutes for us to speak before the third-years come in, but hopefully that will be enough to clear the confusion. He must learn that I had nothing to do with what has been done to him… that, in fact, I do not even know what has happened.

I have not spoken to the Headmaster in… a record-breaking period of time, and I do not have any hope to find out from him, anyway. I doubt Potter himself knows, which leaves Lupin and Pomfrey, one of which does not speak to me at all and the other has sworn an oath to not disclose confidential information about her patients. It works out very well for everyone except Potter… and, by extension, me.

"Take a seat," I tell him when Granger closes the door, doing so quietly as to not make me irritated, in case I should decide to take it out on Potter. I have no such intention…

…but it appears that neither has Potter. He takes out his wand as soon as there is a solid layer of wood separating us from the rest of the world and aims it straight between my eyes. I suppress a shudder. The first thought to cross my mind is that he has finally succumbed to the insanity, but his eyes are too clear, too present. He perceives me as a threat…

"I did not-"

"I'm not interested," he says abruptly. "Don't come close to me, don't speak to me and leave me alone!"

"I-"

"I trusted you!" he snarls. "I didn't want to believe it! Just stay away from me!"

He uses his magic to open the door, not willing to turn his back to me for even a second.

I am too stunned to even try to stop him.

x

I floo to Grimmauld Place as soon as the classes are over for the day with the intention to corner Nymphadora. As luck has it, she is in the kitchen, peeling three potatoes at once. Any other day I would ponder whether the matter I wish to speak about is worth risking my life in such a dangerous environment, but now it is not an issue.

She drops all three knives when I startle her. When she realises who I am she almost smiles, but the motion is aborted when she catches a glimpse of my expression.

"What's happened?" she asks.

"That is exactly what I would like to know," I snarl at her. I do not think it is her fault in the least, but I demand that she finds the answers for me if she does not have them. "What did the werewolf do to Potter?"

"To Harry?" she asks, genuinely confused. "What would Remus… I don't know what you're on about…"

"Then find out! The boy is convinced that _I_ have drugged him and kept him a semi-conscious gibberish mass for half a week!"

Nymphadora opens and closes her mouth several times and then shakes her head.

"B-but… what does Remus have to do with-"

"I saw him forcibly drag the boy to the hospital wing after Weasley's funeral. He did not resurface until Thursday."

"Remus wouldn't do anything to hurt Harry," the woman claims steadfastly.

"Then give me another explanation!"

"Stop taking it out on me! Maybe it really was you! Maybe you're just trying to assign guilt now!"

"I would not hurt Potter! For Merlin's sake, I have risked my life for the boy-"

"Well, so has Remus!" she yells back at me, red in the face. I am suddenly very aware of the three levitated knives. "Remus would never hurt him!"

"Someone did! Ask the werewolf!"

Silence descends as we face off in the middle of the kitchen. The door opens and Molly Weasley steps in, looking as angry as either of us.

"Will you keep it quiet?! I've got two patients upstairs. And, Severus, Remus would never do anything to hurt Harry."

I shake my head. They are all so blind, so naïve, so bloody idealistic! Potter was dying in front of their eyes and they did nothing about it! They pretended that everything was fine… I was there! I deserve Potter's trust! I deserve his… his… him.

I turn to Nymphadora for one last desperate attempt to make her see reason. I do not hope for much, though. It is her lover, after all, and I am only a hateful teacher who sometimes saves the Saviour of the whole fucking ungrateful world.

"Ask him. Ask him what happened to Potter-"

She resolutely declines, jaw set, eyes glittering with anger.

I thought so.

x

"Potter is not attending my classes," I inform the staff on the next Friday. I hate doing it, but I must. I need to speak to the boy.

"Mine neither," says McGonagall.

"Nor mine," informs Pomona.

"Filius?" Dumbledore asks.

The diminutive man shakes his head.

"He delivered all his work for me on time," Viridian says, examining the surprised faces around the table. The conclusion is obvious: Potter does not deem anything but Defence Against the Dark Arts worth wasting his precious time on. I do notice, however, that Viridian is the only of Potter's teachers who is not also a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Is that why he is so angry with me? Guilt by association?

"You do not manage your students too well, Minerva, do you?" I say bitingly. I am tempted to rescind my membership of the Order on the spot, but am too afraid that it would mean my eviction from the castle. Not that there is much to stay for…

"Be so kind and keep your mouth shut," she replies and turns to the Headmaster. "Why was I not informed of this earlier?"

Because she did not ask, that is why.

The Headmaster twinkles at her over the rim of his glasses, interlacing his fingers in the customary grandfatherly fashion, cheek bulging under the mass of white hair with what is most likely a blasted lemon drop.

"Harry needs time to himself, my dear. He has experienced a very tragic event and I believe it best that we give him some time to recuperate."

That lie is so striking that it seems unbelievable that nobody calls him on it. Potter was… maybe not perfectly alright, but certainly not drowning in depression after William died.

"This is very unusual, Albus," Minerva claims, showing a smidgen of responsibility which is way too late and way too small to change anything significant. "Even the Weasley children attend classes…"

"Minerva," Dumbledore speaks with a hint of exasperation which I am accustomed to hearing from him, but most of the people in the room are not, "I know more about the problems Harry is currently dealing with-" I would say. "-and I am unsurprised that he needs some time to himself. Leave him be until Christmas…"

There is a series of hesitant acquiesces around the table, but I cannot add mine. Will Potter even be there by Christmas? Who knows what his mental state is like right now if he does not speak to anybody? I shall have to ask the Bloody Baron to continue keeping watch on him… perhaps Potter would be willing to talk to ghosts… Sir Nicholas, maybe? Supposedly he talked to him after that Godfather of his died…

I lean to the side and under my breath ask Viridian: "How does he act?"

The man waits for the conversation to start again and under the cover of arguing voices replies simply: "Resigned."

I hate the answer, but it is better than not knowing at all.

x

It is astonishing that there is a way for a student in Hogwarts to completely avoid the entire staff (and get away with it). There is some speculation about a house elf bringing him food straight to the Gryffindor dormitory, but that does not explain how he gets to Viridian's office and back without being spotted by any of the lurking teachers waiting to ambush him in the corridors. I suspect it has to do with an Invisibility Cloak, but even that should not be enough.

Dumbledore learns of 'Potter spotting' quickly and gives the whole school a stern talking-to, repeating the same spiel he delivered in the staff meeting, only this time augmented with veiled promise of dire consequences should someone go against his wishes. After that the only teacher apart from Viridian who sees the boy until Christmas is Minerva, who persuades Brown and Patil to start a vicious argument in the middle of his class and demolish enough school property for their Head of House to be called to deal with the situation, and stays long enough after the lesson is supposed to end to catch a glimpse of him.

Needless to say, she does not share her impressions with me.

The term ends with Potter being present for one of his five exams (which he passes with an Outstanding, but which is far from a satisfactory result). At this rate he will not be admitted to N.E.W.T.s. The bigger trouble is, however, that he _does not care_ about not being admitted to them. I go as far during one weekend, when I have corrected all essays and long hours are filled with nothing but short aborted attempts at reading and pointless contemplation, as to send him a letter. The owl brings it back unopened.

The Weasleys go home for the holiday – or, more likely, to the Headquarters – while Granger and Draco stay in the castle. They spend time together, taking long walks outside and scouring the library for a text that Granger has not read yet. Potter is not seen with them once.

Not for the first time in moths I ask myself what is it that I am remaining here for. I have expected to be excluded from the Order for my uselessness shortly after I was revealed to be a spy, with death coming not much later. Being assigned to 'baby-sit' Potter, as he used to call it, I have gained a quarter of a year… it is not much, but the period feels somehow more significant than the whole decade before it… the feeling is gone now, though.

I think… it might be time.


	27. A Moral Man

A/N: Thanks for all reviews. Shutting up before I get longwinded. Read. Enjoy. Review.

Brynn

x

A Moral Man 

x

The Order decides to hold the Christmas celebration at Hogwarts.

On 24th the Inner Circle begins to come together, some of them flooing through the Head's office, some walking through the gates and one group arriving by Portkey straight into the Entrance Hall.

It is a coincidence (I do not know what else to call it, since I do not believe in fate) that at the same time Granger and Draco are passing through the Hall in the opposite direction as I go. There is a moment of confusion while those who have just crash-landed on the floor – Lupin, Nymphadora, Moody, Jones and Doge, supported by Pomfrey – pick themselves up and then everyone moves on their way-

"Harry?!" Lupin exclaims. The scene freezes as everyone in the Hall halts rapidly. I move as first, turning around to ascertain that Potter truly is not in sight and Lupin has finally gone insane. My eyes stray to Granger, who has the typical Gryffindor expression of being caught red-handed.

Potter has an Invisibility Cloak… and Lupin is a werewolf. A werewolf who will be turning tonight… Potter's smell must have virtually punched him in the face.

"Run!" Draco suddenly says to an empty space next to him and raises his wand to cover Potter's escape. I do not move from where I stand, but Lupin takes a step forward and the three Aurors draw their own wands reflexively.

"Harry…" Lupin repeats, looking at a very exact spot where his nose tells him Potter still stands. "Why don't you show yourself? I just want to talk to you… I might not have another chance this Christmas…" I am disgusted by Lupin. I have the urge to tell him where to stick it.

"Why should he talk to you?" I ask him. It might not have been a very smart course of action, since two of the Aurors' wands are aimed at me now (Moody keeps his on Draco), but with my anticipation of my early demise, I cannot find it in myself to care.

"What do you mean?" he has the brazenness to ask.

"What do I mean? I mean after drugging him out of his mind and dumping him in the hospital wing, and then letting him out without considering the withdrawal-"

"Shut up!" he yells at me, Potter's presence momentarily forgotten. "We were trying to protect him – it doesn't surprise me in the least that you wouldn't know what that means."

Nymphadora takes a subconscious step back when Lupin admits that. Her eyes switch from one of us to the other as Lupin advances on me. I know she is thinking back to the time when she blew up at me for demanding to know what Lupin did… she looks guilty now, but it is too late for regrets.

"You call _that_ 'protecting him'? You know, Lupin, I think he is far better off without your 'protection'."

"You know nothing, you bastard!" he shouts, clenching his fists as he keeps himself from physically assaulting me like the monster that he is. "After Bill… Harry and Charlie both refused to tell us what happened, and we were convinced that Harry had been possessed again-"

They should have consulted that with me! I could have told them… actually, I could not. None of them knew – or would have approved if they knew – of the spell linking the rings. Either way, at that time the connection had already been broken. Potter might well have been possessed, but it never crossed my mind to accuse him of something like that.

A first syllable of a spell comes from Draco after that revelation, but someone stops him from finishing it. The boy's out-stretched hand sinks lower, seemingly by itself, and Potter appears, pulling off a silvery cloak. I notice that he is paler and thinner than he was when I last saw him, back to his anorexic look from August which I have expended so much energy to change. They have undone all my work, all in the thrice-cursed name of self-righteousness!

"They thought… you killed Bill?" Nymphadora asks, disbelieving. I cannot quite comprehend it either. This is the result of Dumbledore's convoluted thinking…

"They thought Voldemort killed him, using my body," Potter explains dispassionately. Nymphadora blanches. Lupin squirms, shame seeping in through his veil of anger.

"And they drugged you…"

"And bound him to a bed," I tell her, twisting the dagger in a bit more. She backs up to a wall and with an expression of horror slides to the floor. Moody looks ready to kill.

"And _had_ he been possessed?" Jones asks pragmatically.

"We have ascertained that he hadn't. However, we have tried to break the connection between him and-"

He is abruptly cut off as Potter delivers a vicious, surprisingly strong punch to the side of his face. It makes him stagger, though only due to his consumption of the Wolfsbane Potion, which makes him more torpid than he normally would be.

I open my mouth to ask whether they have bothered to gain Potter's permission for such an encroachment upon his magic, when I become the recipient of an identical strike. He gives the entire group one last glare and runs away into the bowels of the castle.

I stare after him, which is the reason why Lupin gets a chance to take out his rabidness on me. His first blow sends me to the floor, the second does not land because someone Stuns him before he can deliver it. I look up to see Nymphadora turn the corner, sprinting after Potter.

Draco sniffs haughtily, offers his arm to Granger, who accepts it, before walking away in a true Malfoy fashion. Pomfrey takes one look at both me and Lupin and, since neither of us shows signs of a life-threatening injury, sets out after Potter and Nymphadora.

Moody looks irritated with the entire matter. He gestures to Jones and Doge, sending them into the Great Hall to inform the Headmaster of their arrival, and he himself levitates Lupin away, supposedly to the hospital wing.

I am, as, after all, always, left to scrape myself off the ground and ensure my own survival. I feel a distinct lack of motivation.

x

It is the 25th of December, 1996, and I am sitting in front of the dying embers shining red from the hearth in my darkened quarters below the Hogwarts castle. On the table next to me stands an empty bottle of Alsikescotch.

It has been long almost thirty-seven years (it would be thirty-seven in fifteen days) and I cannot quite recall a time when I was content, not to speak about happiness. World as I have known it consisted of calamities, demands on me and slaps in my face whenever somebody felt like they needed to express their displeasure, frustration, bigotry or mere boredom. I recall, quite clearly, pain and humiliation, long evenings spent correcting and marking essays and what transformed werewolves look like up close.

I remember making potions. I was – am, still – the youngest person to achieve the title 'Potions Master'. Anyone else would have been proud of themselves… I resent even that achievement, for it meant a speedy admission into the Dark Lord's – _Voldemort's_ – Inner Circle.

I have made an unusual amount of wrong decisions and when I, once in a while, chose correctly, a Gryffindor appeared out of nowhere and threw me off my chosen path.

The world as I have known it belongs to Gryffindors. They make it, they run it… they destroy it. Let them have it, then. I am going to give myself a Christmas present – something I have wanted for a long, long time.

I summon a crystal phial from behind the mirror in the case I used to stash alcohol in. I have put it there in the fall of 1981st, but it has a shelf life of several hundred years, so I am not alarmed about its age. The liquid inside is clear, colourless. I know – since I have been the one to create and brew it – that it has no odour, but I wonder if it has a taste.

I break the seal and charm the cork out of the slender neck.

"Accio," a voice harshly breaks the silence. The phial slides out of my hand and narrowly avoids breaking against the wall when it is scooped out of the air. I turn my head in the direction and, since Potter is standing there, decide that I must have fallen asleep sometime during the past… five hours. It is a very improbable dream, but as long as it does not contain the Dark Lord or some kind of torture I am not complaining.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly and, though it is unclear whether he is apologising for the past weeks or for ruining my suicide attempt, I decide that it is a scene that my subconscious _would_ stage.

Without giving the realisation any real weight, I notice that my wards have not alerted me to his presence and neither did he know my password, which supports my theory that I am asleep due to the inconsistency of the supposed reality.

He crosses the room, sets the open phial on the table next to the empty bottle and stands between me and the embers – a dark silhouette on red background. His shoulders are slightly hunched and his look downcast.

"I… I remember only bits and pieces. You told me to endure it, that it would stop soon…" Yes, I told him that and many more lies, hoping that it would somehow help him struggle through it. I have no experience with moral supporting, which is one of the reasons why that project of mine has failed so spectacularly.

The apparition of Potter takes a deep breath and continues: "It didn't stop for so long, though… You were in and out, Lupin and Dumbledore were in and out…" I notice his use of the werewolf's surname – yet another argument why this is not real. It is not a bad dream though, only odd. "They told me you were the one who brewed the potions."

I scoff, making a sound for the first time since his appearance.

"I probably was. Pomfrey keeps a store of my potions-"

"-and Dumbledore has a Mastery," he interjects quite rudely. "He would know what to mix together. They didn't even have to lie to me."

He sounds so, so bitter… just like the real Potter.

"It does not matter anymore." I reach for the uncorked phial and bring it to my lips. His hand on my wrist stalls me. It is warm. It is very hard to believe him an apparition when his hand is warm. I wish he would stop touching me so that I could get to the catharsis. Peripetia has long since passed and I am tiring of the status quo.

"Tonks said you hadn't known and when you found out you got mad… that you yelled at her and wanted her to find out what happened and that she didn't believe you… She's so sorry, you know?" His voice fades and for the duration of several heartbeats literally nothing happens. Then he kneels in front of my armchair – I dimly recall a situation when the positions were reversed – still keeping hold of my wrist. "Pomfrey said the first thing you wanted to do was to cut the binds. That I told you not to." It figures. The woman would have seen me and, if she disapproved of Dumbledore's decision, would have let me come back repeatedly. Perhaps she even helped me avoid Potter's other two visitors…

I shake my head. I do not know if this is real or imagined anymore. It is too confusing. I stare pointedly at the vial in my hand, but Potter – true to his incurable Gryffindorness – ignores the implication in favour of continuing his monologue.

"I don't remember. I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I'm sorry."

It means more than he can imagine – or it does if he is real, of which I still am not convinced. I am far too drunk and far too depressed to make sense of anything more complex than first-year potions, and Potter is far beyond N.E.W.T. level difficulty. Masters cannot make sense of him when sober. I do not even try.

"Go away and let me die in peace… or at least in quiet."

I startle a laugh out of him, which he attempts to muffle by pressing his face into my leg, which is very unwelcome, but not nearly as unwelcome as it should be.

"Potter…" I growl.

"You're not the first one with this idea," he says, turning so that I have one green eye (sane, pupil un-dilated, unobstructed from view by ridiculous glasses) in sight. "Though I don't doubt that you've been there before. I really thought about it at one point in time. The bastard was possessing me, and after I killed the Dursleys-"

"He." He gives me a questioning look, as though he did not understand what I am talking about. For such a clever boy he can be startlingly dumb. "_He_ killed your relatives."

"After _we_ killed my relatives," he compromises, "I considered ending it before I hurt someone else, but then I thought…" he pauses, and I hang on his lips, because if he stops talking now, my mind _will_ return to my previous train of thought, and that is going to be neither pleasant, nor constructive. If I give in to it, there is no going back, and Potter is about the only one who might have a chance on turning me away from that direction. I do not know why, _why_ does he wield that power over me, but if he stops talking now, it is going to Hell for me. Definitively.

"What if I _do_ kill Voldemort?"

Gods, Potter, never lose your determination, your faith. _I_ believe in you and that is saying something, just do not actually make me say it aloud.

"It's improbable, I know, but there is a small chance…"

He has had it in his reach and it was taken away from him. I hope that we might one day be forgiven for it. We have been selfish, held him back because we did not want to let go of him just yet… He is right. I will not let go of him now.

I set the phial on the table and charm the cork back in.

"But to manage that, I need you."

The words reverberate in the too empty dungeon room. I bite my forearm, hard (which has the dual purpose of keeping any noise I might make inside, and waking me up in the case this is a nightmare or a hallucination caused by loss of blood/poison), but the scene remains the same. This _is_ real. Potter's face _is_ turned up to me, the emptiness driven away by hope and desperation. I am not ready for this…

"I taught you everything useful I know. You do not need me for anything." Even as I say it, I hear how untruthful those words are. I am lying – but lying is what I am.

"Perhaps not as a teacher…" I know. I know. Do not say it… oh, please, Merlin, do not say anything… shut up! "I need someone here for me." That is what I set out to be, months ago… did I not? Where have I lost it? How did everything get so pear-shaped? I… I…

"Do not…" I take a deep breath, "be an idiot, Potter. You have Malfoy, Granger, the Weasleys…" But he does not, does he? He only has me… and his 'purpose'.

"You know me better than that."

Oh, yes. I know him better than anyone. And is that not just fucking ridiculous? The funniest thing I have ever heard. Except that I do not laugh. I want to cry, but there is no reason I can define, and there is him and I will _not_ cry in front of him… I just will not. He saw me attempting suicide and that is _enough_. I know he can take it – he can take _anything_, now, except my betrayal, which will never, _never_ happen – but I do not want to subject us to it.

I stare into his eyes; there are tiny orange flames reflected in them, darkness, Darkness and… I. Maybe I was not right. Maybe he cannot take anything. Maybe I truly am his lifeline. Maybe cutting my veins is like cutting the veins of the wizarding world. Maybe… But I do not really want to find out, even if it would not concern me anymore. Maybe, deep down, in my rotten core, I _am_ a moral man.

"That is a load of dragon dung, Potter…" I growl, but he ignores me. I pretty much ignore me, too. He is holding my wrists in his hands, and they are nice hands, warm and gentle, with calloused fingers like no other Hogwarts student has, worn with hard work and even harder life. I do not mind those hands holding mine. They have earned the right to.

"When Tom sends me a _Christmas present_… would you leave me to face it alone?"

I still remember the _birthday present_ he got. Gods… Merlin… no. No, I cannot leave him to fight alone. He is already too alone as it is, just as he was at the Hogwarts gates on the 1st of August, just as he was on 1st of November trying to sacrifice his life for hope for his friends, just as he was in Whipsnade when William died in front of his eyes.

He releases my left wrist and tugs on my hair, forcing me to look up from those hands, into his eyes. Hope. Oh gods…_I_ give him hope? Why… why me? Why not Malfoy, not Granger, not a Weasley… any Weasley… why not Lupin? Why did he not love William back, why did they not run away together?

"Why me?" It sounds suspiciously like a whine, but, fortunately, my throat is not adjusted to produce whines, so it comes out more like a rumble. But Potter does not answer.

Damn him. Damn me. Damn the English language… damn just about everything.

He stands up, forces my forehead somewhere to the vicinity of his collarbone… and the tears finally spill.

x

It _was_ strangely cathartic. Intellectually, I knew of the effect before, even from my own memories, but that did not mean that I believed it could help me. It did. Now all that I need is to teach it to Potter, and we are halfway to salvation.

It should actually be embarrassing, that he held me while I cried myself to sleep, worse even than the bunch of thick-heads he had to console in the Headquarters, but there never was any doubt that it would remain between the two of us, and, honestly, what have I to lose by trusting Potter?

Harry?

Or whatever he is these days?

Nothing. Right. It certainly means facing the ridicule and hatred longer than I would like to, but, somehow, I am willing to. It is not that he melts me as he does it to about anyone else – he does not. There is just this wall between me and any other human that does not exist between us. It feels like it never even was there (though I more or less distinctly remember it), or like we both suddenly found ourselves on the same side.

x

I wake up in the morning when the wards flare, alerting me to someone entering my office. I am out of bed and standing in the bedroom doorway by the time they cross the threshold to my quarters…

I let my wand down when I realise it is Harry. Feeling fairly under-dressed, wearing only a night-suit, I retreat back into the bedroom, while he sits down on the carpet in the centre of the chamber and cracks a book open.

I have not had enough time yet to assimilate all the revelations of yesterday. Having him in my private living space does not feel as intrusive as I would have estimated, but I am still expecting him to suddenly start raving at me about some perceived injustice. He apologised, certainly, but I have not disregarded the fact that he had not trusted me enough to discard the thought of me being a part of the Order's scheme. He should have known better… although I admit that in his eyes I may have implicated myself… it is all incredibly knotted and I do not expect it to ever be fully untied. As it is now, I still feel bile in my throat thinking of the Headmaster, Lupin, the 'protection' they have provided and Harry's palpable fear of me as its result.

We are both the victims in this conspiracy, but a part of me remembers the hurt of his rejection and vilifies _Potter_. It is a natural defensive mechanism of a Slytherin mind, which I could not turn off even if I wanted to… Calling him Harry in my head helps. It creates an even greater schism between him and his father, whom I shall hate until my dying day, despite the providence arranging the discontinuation of my resentment toward the fact of his existence.

Dressed as I usually am in private, in my normal clothing sans the outer robe, I return to the chamber where I have left Harry. There is some residual trepidation about what he might have managed to destroy in the meantime.

I find out that he did not destroy anything, but removed the portraits of Phillip von Hohenheim, Girolamo Savonarola, Angelo Ambrogini and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. They are currently glaring at him from the desk I occasionally use to grade essays – when the chair in my office becomes too uncomfortable.

"They snitch," Harry says by way of an explanation and turns a yellowed page. The margins are filled with tiny, neat writing. I spy a black suitcase lying on the sofa, open. When I sit down, he finally looks up from the text and realises that some nuance of his comment must have escaped me. "I mean that they spy on you and report to Dumbledore," he states blandly and turns another page.

I am far too cynical for that to surprise me. Have I had any kind of a personal life it might have angered me, but as it is they could merely report on how incensed the students' stupidity can make me and, in worse times, how much I have drunk before I fell asleep.

"What is that?" I ask, staring at the book. That ought to be a relatively safe topic to start the day and the new period of cease-fire between us.

"Munimentum Mei." I raise an eyebrow. He reacts to it even without seeing it, as if there was a shift in the atmosphere caused by the mere gesture. It is unbelievable how well he still knows me, even after months without spending any length of time in my presence. "It's the best book on passive defence there is. It's about twenty years old, but there's nothing newer that comes even close to its quality."

I remember a night in the Grimmauld Place when he and William spoke of Rosetta Stones and Ptolemy's theories of magic. How far from here and now that memory is… Lost. William is dead and it is now Harry fingering the pages of his books.

"He said I didn't love anybody," the boy says suddenly, and I do not know how to react to that non sequitur. The conversation has suddenly jumped from a safe topic to an extremely volatile one, and I am not impervious anymore.

"Who?" I ask, even though I am fairly certain.

Harry once again defies my attempts to see through him.

"Charlie," he says with a small smile of reminiscence. "I was angry at them for stopping the ritual. And he said that I can't understand why they did it, because I don't love anybody."

"And?" There must be some conclusion, some point he is aiming to elucidate.

He shrugs.

"These are your rooms – I need your permission to cast wards."


	28. Proteges

A/N: Sorry for the wait. My life just got somewhat turbulent and… well, it's all useless excuses, but I'm really in a shitload of trouble… excuse my French. Anyway, enjoy this chapter and review. I could really do with a mood-lifter.

Brynn

x

Protégés 

x

Talk of Harry's emotional deficiency and blood rituals abandoned as suddenly as it was brought up, I beckon him to bring the book to me. Regardless of how much he likes sitting on the floor, it is a habit I will _not_ be picking up and one that I intend to make him unlearn, should it happen that his presence would be more frequent in my quarters… which I suspect the wards are for.

He fits easily into the space between me and the armrest of the sofa, bookmarks his page and passes the text to me. It is, as he said, Munimentum Mei, though past 'my fortification' that does not tell me anything. I take a look inside, skimming over the pages. Already the first chapter is so advanced that I probably would not be capable of casting all these without further study. By the time I reach the fifth one, the parchment is filled with workman gibberish.

I steal a look at him. He sits unmoving, patient, reading the writing over my elbow, keeping track with how far I have gotten yet. I open the page he has marked.

"Ward against house elves?" I ask. It is about the only thing I understand of the description. I knew that he was skilled with warding, but I never expected this level of proficiency… No wonder Nymphadora claimed that he would never be content with Auror work. With training, he might easily surpass William's skill with raw magic – and William had been considered a prodigy.

That notwithstanding, I want to hear a very good reason before I allow him to rob me off express delivery of coffee.

"House elves are useful, but as long as they're not bound to you, they do whatever their Master asks them to," he says reasonably. I catch on.

"And the _Master_ of the school elves is the Headmaster."

I should have thought of it before. It would not have been possible for me to forbid them entrance as long as I was a spy, but now my loyalties are not in question anymore – otherwise I would not have been allowed anywhere near the 'Golden Boy' without supervision. The question is: do I dare risk incurring the Headmaster's wrath to achieve privacy?

It is so inapprehensible… how it all comes back to Harry. Harry is the reason I am still alive to have to deal with this, but he is also the one to suggest the solutions and the one to perform the warding if I decide to let him do it. What makes me hesitate now is the question whether he will stand up to the Headmaster if it turns out that I am still not trusted enough to be allowed out of sight of the watchers. I cannot ask him to promise me something like that – I could not admit aloud what my thoughts are. Am I capable of trusting that he will not turn his back on me second time?

"Is it necessary?"

He sighs and his expression becomes more closed off.

"No, of course not. But otherwise I won't return here."

No, of course not. Considering that the time we spend together is filled with Dark Arts, alcohol and indecent proposals (even though refused), it would not be possible. On the other hand, should this intermezzo go so wrong that Dumbledore would decide not to keep me in the castle anymore and Harry would not bother to step in, there is always that phial…

"You think I will actually allow you to come back?"

He shrugs, looking at me as if that question was stupid, rather than simply lacking substance.

"You think you could _actually_ prevent me? It was _Bloody Baron_ who gave me your password – with ghosts, house elves and me on my side and intermediate wards on yours-" I take offence at that. My wards are far above average! "-I don't reckon you could keep me out."

"Why should you bother?"

He groans and rubs his face with the palms of his hands.

"Didn't we have this conversation yesterday?"

I do not remember too much of yesterday. I know I was angry and desperate and for a long while convinced that Potter's presence was a figment of my imagination caused by un-tempered consumption of alcohol. I know I cried… that is embarrassing.

"Did we?"

He sighs and stands up from the sofa. For a moment he hesitates, looking with longing at the book in my hands, and then he shakes his head and turns away. Before he takes a step I catch his forearm. The fabric is smooth, much better quality than the uniforms Malkin's sells. There is not a trace of Regulus left on them, though.

"Should I go or should I cast that ward?" he asks directly. From the tone of his voice it is obvious that anything but an equally direct answer would be accepted with exasperation and subsequently translated into the first option.

"Cast," I tell him. He pulls his sleeve out of my grip, takes the book from my other hand and returns to his spot in the centre of the rug. He closes his eyes and ignores me.

I sink back into the sofa and wonder if there _ever_ can be any kind of accord between us.

x

Days pass and Harry spends more time in the dungeons than he does anywhere else. I, retrospectively, realise that he has not mentioned the passing of Christmas at all; there was no talk of presents or traditions, nor of his friends. He has spent that day debugging my living space and delving so deep into the undisclosed part of my life that I am not sure I have any left. He, on the contrary, offers but bits and pieces about himself and even those are specifically selected from among the most superficial and irrelevant information about him there is.

He comes in the morning, sometimes before I wake up, and goes whenever and wherever he likes… but always returns, quiet and thoughtful – as Viridian has described him: resigned. He reads a lot, mostly the books from William, and I teach him Dark Arts associated with Air. When I suggest it, he helps with brewing the potions for Pomfrey and takes them to the hospital wing afterwards – probably so that he can talk to the medi-witch. He is avoiding the Order as much as possible, but I have noticed that in their presence (with the exception of Lupin, whom he seems to ignore completely) he maintains the charade he has started upon his return from Egypt and pretends to be a rather naïve… well, a normal sixteen-year-old Gryffindor.

I have once changed my password, just to see how long it would take him to get in. He has barely commented upon it, merely to inform me that if I wish him to not come again, I shall have to let him know either verbally, or in writing.

I am becoming used to his presence, even so as to address him automatically when he is not there. He rarely makes enough noise for even one person, but his absence leaves my quarters too silent, without the portraits of Angelo and Giovanni arguing in hushed voices and Savonarola cursing them and threatening them with Hell. I should have known how profound Dumbledore's dislike of me was when he saddled me with a portrait of a pious Roman Catholic priest. How did that evil thing even get into Hogwarts? There is no way that… religious radical could have been a wizard. He must have been _born_ a torturer.

"Coffee?" a quiet voice asks, startling me from my reverie. I look up, only to realise that the last candle has burnt out and my pretence of reading is not believable in the fallen darkness.

Harry does not wait for my answer; he puts a pot and a cup on the table and sits down on the end of the sofa, accepting my request that he not sit on the floor with no objections. He conjures a floating ball of fire in the air above and between us so I can see on what I am doing. I pour myself a cup – the brew is hot and bitter, and wakes me up as effectively as it does every morning.

"The holidays will be over soon," I say, although in fact I am asking what is going to happen when the second term starts. Will we meet twice or thrice a week for Dark Arts lessons, aside from his regular Potions classes?

"New Year is tomorrow," he replies without answering. "Everything has changed and I would be stupid if I pretended it didn't. I knew since summer that I couldn't trust Dumbledore or Re-Lupin to take care of me…" He brings his knees up to his chin and locks his hands around his calves, curling himself into an impossibly small ball. He is so thin again… stick-like forearms (or what is visible of them in the voluminous sleeves of his uniform), fingers with disproportionately bulging joints, cheekbones prominent. He looks unappetisingly tragic, and I note that I have not observed his eating habits in the past few days.

"Are you eating?"

He starts laughing and I do not understand why. There is nothing amusing or even laughable about the question. I wait until he calms and pin him with a questioning stare.

"I can always count on _you_," he says simply. It still does not sound that hilarious, but I figure that I cannot imagine the situation from his point of view and therefore cannot comprehend his reactions anyway – in the case that they _are_ rational at all. "I just thought I meant more to… to Lupin… thought he would listen to me. It was stupid to think someone would believe me over Dumbledore's dogmas."

I connect the continuation of his statement to its beginning and conclude that it relates to the humongous misstep the Order has made with drugging Harry and interring him in the hospital wing.

It was not stupid of him at all, especially taking his youth into account… But the words are words of an adult and if I am to consider him an adult, I have to concede that it was naïve. He was brought up – if his life before Hogwarts could be described so – in environment where his word meant nothing and the people to control his life followed their authorities without leaving room for common sense. He _should_ have expected that…

It helps that I now understand what struck him so hard that he would sink back into the depression. Another shred of his innocence, of his ability to believe, has been ripped away. He does not have a whole lot of them left…

"It was unfair-" I cannot excuse using that word without heavy irony, "-of you to stop believing it after Lupin disappointed you-"

"And I am sorry!" he says forcefully. I have not realised it grieved him so much. I am so unused to anyone feeling guilty over injustice being done to me that it has not even crossed my mind.

"Potter, it is bygone."

"That doesn't change the fact that it happened and don't know how to make it up to you."

"Kill the Dark Lord…" I mutter, more to myself than to him but not caring whether he hears or not.

"I intend to," he says, evenly, as if he was stating his preference in drink. "I've promised to."

"…do not get killed doing it," I add, slightly louder.

Lines appear on his emaciated face, tracing sorrow, loss and perhaps a hint of desperation.

"When they drugged me, I couldn't Occlude well enough. I threw him out every time he got in, but I couldn't suppress the visions. So many dead… so many tortured and… Why bother saving the race… when I see what they're doing with their lives? The hatred and prejudice… the bigotry… all the violence."

There is that word again. Violence. He said it was a part of him now, but he despises it – does that mean he hates _himself_?

I set the cup down on the table, lift myself from the armchair to the sound of popping joints and summon two cloaks.

"Come with me."

x

I lead him onto the rampart both of us know too well. There is no trace of the July Battle left, but we recognise beyond any doubt the spot where Bellatrix died, the one where Lucius Malfoy's skull was shattered and where he saved Draco from his uncle's brother. However, none of that is the reason why I have brought him here.

The night that signifies the end of one year and the beginning of another was not chosen randomly. There is an undercurrent of a different magic in the air, one too strange to mankind, incomprehensible and undescribed. It is when the Merpeople sing, though we are too far to hear more than bits of a distant melody, brought to us by the gusts of wind. It is when centaur herds come together to stargaze and predict their race's fortune. It is when the unicorns seek out human dwellings… or so the stories go, which old witches read to their grandchildren when the winter is cold and snowstorm keeps the families inside.

I have long since stopped believing in fairy tales, but it is a tradition that parents take their children out of the house, onto the front porch if the weather does not permit more, to try and call a unicorn. I have not heard of it ever appearing, but it does not quell the children's enthusiasm.

As I thought, there is a group of students who have remained at Hogwarts crossing the previously unmarked white plane to the gamekeeper's hut. Hagrid seems to be expecting them, too. The blue shine of the snow allows us to watch the boys pelt each other with snowballs. To my immense surprise, Draco and Granger are walking at the side of the group.

"Is this not worth fighting for?" I ask him. It sounds ridiculously Gryffindor, but I do not have anything better to offer him – I have never questioned my own motivation past the desire to redeem myself.

"You don't understand," he replies, although I notice that there is a different look in his eyes now, one less desperate and… warmer. "They _live_ and _love_ and _dream_, and I… what's left for _me_?"

Why does he ask me? I am the one who attempted suicide a week ago. I should be asking him… Even though my reason for living is simple and clearly defined, I doubt it would help him. He should find that reason on his own.

"Do you truly have nothing you want for yourself?"

"Oh, please," he scoffs, bitterness making him frown. There are new lines, perpendicular to the line of his mouth, just touching the corners of his lips. "I'm not allowed to want something for myself. Every time I try, I'm rebuffed. Apparently, selfishness is a crime when you're a hero."

This is not exactly truth. He has had so many things, so many _people_ over the years… he just loses everything and everyone too quickly. Danger follows him and those who care for him willingly step in its way. I know intimately that in the deciding moment, his survival means far more than the detail of him missing someone. I am so disgusted with myself for holding it against him for years.

"I can…" I fall silent when I realise one of those lines – and, consequently, one corner of his mouth – is slightly higher. He is _smirking_. "Are you trying to _manipulate_ me?"

"Hmm…" The smirk turns into a small, shy smile. It lights up his face and I know that I have been successful; dragging him up here and showing him his classmates has helped motivate him. "How was I doing?" he asks cheekily. I recall when I took points for a similar remark. How foolish.

"You exceeded my expectations."

It still does not change the reality of his feelings of loneliness, guilt and deficiency… He is acting like he feels stronger now, and perhaps he does, but it is all temporary. I need to help him so that he has motivation that is his own, not leeched off people on the other side of the _wall_.

Another gust of wind brings another half a line from the merpeople's song and lifts a few snowflakes.

"It is easy for a Gryffindor to do so," he notes. "You _never_ expect it of them."

Naturally. That is why Gryffindors make the best traitors – as has been proven by Pettigrew. I do have the decorum to not say it aloud, though.

"Nevertheless," he says, still smiling, "I meant every word I said."

I meet his eyes and surrender to the need for acknowledgement they show. I do not think him a liar – not to me. I care naught that he misleads and deceives Dumbledore and Lupin. I do that as well. But to him, I cannot be anything but truthful.

"So did I."

There is a while of silence while Harry watches the children join forces to build snowmen, Granger, Draco and another sixth-year using only their wands to do so. I do not know much about such things, but I have the feeling that they might have missed the point. Nevertheless, they laugh and shout and all of that ear-splitting noise makes Harry happier.

"Dumbledore thinks you're becoming sort of a father-figure to me," he states after a while. I have not seen the Headmaster since the end of term teachers' conference, but that would be the logical conclusion for him to come to, in the light of Harry's refusal of Lupin and the amount of time he spends in dungeons. Merlin help me though, if the old coot caught on the fact that I teach his little Boy Hero the 'nasty' spells.

"He might have a-"

"Don't even think about it," he cuts in. "I don't want you as a father-figure. I get patronised enough."

I shake my head. I would not know how to treat him as a child. We both have, with a variety of difficulties, accepted our equality. I would certainly never let my charge cast protection wards on my living rooms, especially not if they were designed to cover our illicit actions. Harry, on the other hand, has never had a true father-figure and he probably would not know what to do with one – he would, most likely, not even be able to get used to its presence.

"Is your ward over there getting close to the Know-it-all?" I ask, changing the subject with the subtlety of a stampeding herd of rhinoceroi. Harry, true to his habit of defying expectations, does not take offence.

"Hardly. Hermione's head over heels for Ron. I think Ginny might have her eye on Draco, and what she has her eye on, she usually gets… While I think Draco is looking for something lasting, I don't rule out the chance on anything happening between them in the meantime."

I grimace when I hear that barrage of unwanted information, which makes him chuckle. "You've asked."

He has succeeded in driving the point across – if I do insult the few people he holds dear, he has a very effective way of revenge.

"I was given ample opportunity to regret it," I reply dryly. He chuckles again and returns his attention to the students breaking curfew.

"Do you think Draco might be ready for the dissolution of the guardianship?"

I, too, look over to the group. Granger stands beside Hagrid, deep in conversation, and Draco… Draco helps one of the smallest figures of undetermined gender search for stones to use as their snowman's eyes. I never thought I would live to see that.

"Yeah," Potter answers his own question. "He's ready."

x

We return to my quarters soon thereafter and Harry seats himself on the sofa in what is quickly becoming 'his' spot. I claim the armchair by the hearth and call the Lightsphere I usually keep in my office to provide sufficient illumination for reading. I do not know how Harry had his eyes healed, but straining them certainly is not going to help the second time around.

At half past one it occurs to me to glance at the clock – it is already 1997. Harry is engrossed in a book again, this one looking distinctly Muggle; the pages are made of paper and there is a picture of a rather unrealistic flying machine on the backdrop of starry sky. It is also not wrapped in Daily Prophet.

I walk over to my office and call for a house elf. A little green bowing figure appears and offers its services in an aggravatingly subservient way. I ask for – order – a pot of black tea and two cups. The elf has them on my desk in less than five seconds and I cannot even find it in myself to bemoan the necessity of taking the twenty steps more than I would have had to take without the ward.

When I return, less than a minute later, Harry is asleep, lying on the sofa, loosely holding the book while its pages are being crumpled. I take it away from him, use the upper first-year essay from the stack to mark where he has stopped reading and set it aside. I wonder if it would be expected of me in such a situation (if I was ever expected to get into it) to take off his shoes or do something equally daunting…

In the end I settle for dimming the light, bringing Harry a blanket, covering him with it and going to bed, somehow unable to shake off the notion that tonight, regardless of the date and of the wild magic possibly raging outside, a huge milestone has been passed.


	29. The Caretaker

A/N: Thanks for feedback and encouragements! Keep reviewing!  
Brynn

x

The Caretaker

x

"Severus, get up!"

I sit up on my bed, wand in hand and aimed at the intruder. Harry has never provoked this reflexive reaction in me, which would mean…

My sleep-addled mind focuses and I realise I am staring half at, half through the Bloody Baron. Certainly no other ghost would dare invade my quarters. He is floating by the wall, posture and face rigid as ever, but I have never heard him sound so alarmed – he is a ghost, for Morgana's sake! He has nothing to be afraid of!

"What is going on?" I inquire, letting my feet down on a strip of uncovered granite floor, which is granted to wake me up instantly. It does.

"Potter's going on!" the dead man snaps. I still do not know exactly what is his problem. It cannot be that Harry has fallen asleep on the couch and I have decided not to wake him up to throw him out – if so, then the Baron is a bloody hypocrite and can go hang himself… if he physically could, that is.

I pull off my nightwear, ignoring the ghost and with some sixth sense or faint magical awareness knowing that Harry is not within the quarters anymore. The clothes I have worn yesterday have not been snagged by the house elves – another small change in my life brought about by the boy – and I put them on.

"Severus, would you be so kind and _move_!"

I blink at the Baron in surprise. I have _never_ seen a dead person in this state… it resembles well-controlled panic.

"Would you tell me what is so urgent?"

"That Caretaker person has just dragged Potter's body in the direction of the old torture chambers!"

For a moment I fail to see what is so unusual about that. Potter has had detentions before, with McAllister too-

Has the Baron said Harry's _body_?

"Where is he?" I demand coldly.

"There I imagine," he replies with iciness I cannot hope to match while alive, "if he hasn't gone elsewhere while you were preening-"

"Lead."

I sweep through the dungeon corridors with the Baron floating a step before me, sometimes literally walking into him yet disregarding the freezing sensation. The voices can be heard from afar, carried by the acoustic of a web of hallways of stone, testament to McAllister's lack of magical powers. Only a squib would not put up a Silencing Spell-

"Come on, Harry… I've had a lonely Christmas. The Pince wench won't put out. You're a hero. You _want_ to make me feel better."

My insides twist. My rage boils hot but a surge of hatred that is more freezing than a ghost's touch overpowers it immediately.

"Fuck off you swine…" I hear Harry's muffled words. "If you do this, it'll be your last mistake."

"Like you would tell anyone, ickle Harry." The bastard laughs. _Laughs_! I thought I would get away from this when I stopped spying… "You don't want something like that on the front pages, do you? You'll be a nice boy and keep your mouth shut."

"The Hell-"

I hear a whimper just as I kick the door to the torture chamber open. McAllister is kneeling on the floor over a heap of something black and white… with large green eyes. Harry is being divested off his robe against his will but, bound as he is, there is little resistance he can muster. How fitting it is that the son of a bitch chose this place.

An eerie nothingness overtakes me and next I find myself, a few seconds later, kneeling on the spot previously occupied by McAllister, leaning over a dead body, with blood dripping off my fingers. I do not remember anything. The corpse has its throat torn open and the head hanging at an angle not found in nature.

I still do not remember anything.

Harry's improbably large eyes with panic-dilated pupils are trained at me. There is awe in his expression as I have not seen in him since he was eleven. I search for my wand, but it is too far – across the room, near the threshold, where I have dropped it.

I realise I am holding my scalpel in my hand (I must have recovered it from inner pocket of my robe when I have gone berserk) and use it to sever the ropes around Harry's ankles and wrists. He immediately grabs me; I do not mind at all. The enormity of what has almost happened – what I have so nearly failed to prevent – has yet to hit me.

I still do not remember those few seconds. I also do not regret it – neither the deed, nor the lack of memory. So _this_ is what solicitors mean when they claim temporary insanity. I have never experienced it before. Not in battle, not when I tortured, not when I was tortured. It is new and the sheer uncontrollability of it scares me. It is inside me, with a mind of its own, violent, homicidal…

"That's the one thing…" _Harry_ mumbles into my stomach, since he somehow maneuvered himself (or I have removed him) closer to me, without paying attention to which limb actually ended where, "…I haven't had done to me yet…" His voice is raspy and he quickly lowers it to whisper. His throat must be raw, I realise numbly, lifting him further and holding the subtile body to my chest, automatically running my fingers through his hair. His hands move up my upper arms; one halts at the shoulder, the other continues until it is clasping the back of my neck.

"Right now I'm so glad… you haven't killed yourself," he gasps inches from my ear and dissolves into hysterical laughter.

Great Merlin and Morgana, so am I. Never mind the _Christmas present_ from Tom Riddle, I am so glad I was here tonight… so glad…

"Shh…" I say to both of us. I keep on cradling him until the fit fades and he calms down enough to be coherent in his answers.

"What happened?" I feel wetness on the skin of the nape of my neck. Is he…

He is _crying_. Finally. After all that destruction and death and pain, the has dam broken and Harry cries. He cries on _me_, which cannot be very healthy, but he does it nevertheless. McAllister's body bleeds on the floor next to us and neither of us cares. I do not even care anymore about what _almost_ happened to the boy, all that matters now is that he is alright, or at least going to be.

I was such an idiot to think that I could escape this – escape him. He has me wrapped around his finger more than either Dumbledore or Riddle ever had. I… love him.

Great _bloody_ Merlin.

x

He has red smudges in some very improbable places. I have apparently touched his face repeatedly, painting it with McAllister's blood, but there are also marks on his nape, his hands, the side of his stomach (continuing down his hip and winding out of sight), under his arms and on the sides of his knees.

It looks almost as if _I_ molested him as well.

"He used fermented Wolfsbane. I haven't expected it until he pressed the cloth to my face, and then it was too late. I think I punched him, might have cracked a rib… but it wasn't enough. I was lethargic." I feel him moving. One of his knees finds support somewhere between mine and he shifts closer; his cheekbone slides about an inch higher and I automatically put a hand around him to keep him steady. "Tied me up and dragged me here… as you found me. He had my wand… said… said…" I give him all the time he needs to compose himself. I do not feel too well at the moment either. I wonder where the Baron has gone. I wonder if he has told Dumbledore yet. I wonder if he will at all. "If I wanted it back, I had to…do something… for him…"

It is almost funny how he does not even bat an eyelash when confronted with any kind of physical violence, but sexual violence reduces him to a scared child (which he, in a twisted way, is). He is not innocent, not even in _this way_, but it is one of those little pieces of his soul he has not had torn from him yet, and he clings to it with desperation.

"H-how many…has he _done_ it to?"

How could I know? During the past six years we have had Dark Lords, possessed students, egomaniacs, werewolves, Azkaban convicts, Death Eaters and Ministry officials controlled with Imperius in school, but this time the Headmaster has overdone himself. We have not had a rapist yet.

x

It takes us both a long time to recover enough to start thinking clearly. Nobody has come to look for us, which indicates that the Baron has not informed anyone. That leaves us with two options as to what to do about the situation.

"I don't want this to get out," Harry states but makes it sound more like a question.

"I do not have a preference," I tell him truthfully and survey the corpse. Within five minutes we spell away all traces of human presence; Harry even restores the dust on the floor. The only indication that anything ever happened is going to be McAllister's disappearance. The stage is familiar – I have murdered someone, and an associate is there to hide the body – but the scene not quite so. I have never been so glad to have killed before. The associate has never been a sixteen-year-old boy with a glint of steel in his eyes.

"Where are you going?" he asks when I turn left on the nearest junction.

"To find answers. Wait for me in my quarters."

And that is that. How frighteningly simple it sounds. Harry nods and complies, and though I suspect it is what he would have done normally, I am not one hundred percent certain that he is going to be any 'alright'. It always happens to him. I see it now.

McAllister's rooms are filled with numerous objects; most of them cheap, but some rather expensive and very likely stolen. There is, however, nothing that suggests the man was any more wicked than, say, Mundungus Fletcher.

It is not until I enter the kitchenette – why someone needs that within Hogwarts is a mystery, but there is nothing in the wizarding world that states things are to be done logically – when I notice something out of place. There is an open envelope on the counter, with a folded piece of parchment sticking out of it. A curse more hideous than the Entrails-Expelling (and that one is rather unappetising to watch) has been placed on it. McAllister, being a Squib, would not have noticed. I, being a former Death Eater, recognise the Dark Lord's work beyond a smidgen of doubt.

The Headmaster should let Harry have a go at remodelling the Hogwarts wards if this piece of shit could get in.

I gather the thing into a plastic bag I appropriate from one of the drawers and carry it back to my well-secured quarters to deal with it. Bloody Baron is keeping Harry company, which is probably a good idea now that I think about it. I am not perceptive enough today and, although there are extenuating circumstances, I am irritated with myself for it.

I nod at the ghost; he nods back. Everything has been dealt with in the Slytherin way; all that is left is practicing saying 'I don't know' believably.

"No one," I tell Potter as soon as the Baron is gone.

"What?" he looks up from a plate of some chocolate monstrosities. I notice he has not eaten one. He probably should – if it helps against the after-effects of dementors, it might help now. I barely suppress a bitter laugh – if Potter ate more sweets, perhaps he would not be so depressed…

"You have asked me how many people McAllister had raped," I clarify. "No one."

He scoffs and pushes the plate further away, as if the mere thought of desserts disgusted him. Or maybe it is the thought of food in general… but he _must_ eat. He has no weight left to lose and he is fading as it is.

"So, I was to be his _first_," he mutters. "I feel _so_ honoured."

"No reason to, truly," I say, feigning callousness. "He was under a curse. I think that we have uncovered one of Tom Riddle's presents to you, even though it was addressed to the late caretaker."

He hides his face in his hands, groans and mumbles something that I do not hope to decipher.

"What was that?"

"Birthday," he repeats. "It was Tom Riddle's birthday yesterday. I'm an idiot. I should have realised…"

"Shut up, finally!" I snap at him. He looks startled though not offended, probably because he knows that he has been whining. It is tiresome and pointless. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow you shall have to go out there and tell the Headmaster that you have no idea where his new pet Squib is, and you have to make it believable." Or he could stay here indefinitely, but I am afraid that the Order would crucify me for supposedly harming their precious Saviour.

I look up at his face when I feel him take my hand. His eyes are still wide, as if he was still surprised, and he looks incredibly weak and vulnerable. I would be disgusted by this picture, were it not accompanied by resolve, determination and what I know to be the willingness to hurt someone back. He will pull through like he always does.

"Thank you," he says and touches his lips to the palm of the hand he holds, which is a bad idea considering where that hand was lately and what it was doing there. It brings back the self-reproach I have hoped to forget about.

"I almost failed you-"

"But you didn't," he retorts forcefully. Light returns into his eyes. Like a good little weapon – give him something to fight against and he _will_ find the ferocity in himself. I know what he means. I have not failed him, no matter how close a call it was, but everybody else has.

"No, I did not."

He smiles and kisses the back of the same hand.

"So, thank you."

x

I am too relieved for words when by the next day, Harry is 'fine'. He is actually better than he was since the fiasco after the Whipsnade attack. I am certain of it – I have been watching for signs of anything out of ordinary, but he is being honest with me. When he feels melancholic he does not hide it.

Time passes a lot like it did after the unmentioned Christmas, but there is a major change: we have conversations. The topics vary. He tells me about his childhood, which was a lot like I suspected it to have been, about the stunts the Golden Trio pulled throughout the years, which, when put into perspective, were not nearly as foolhardy as I have believed them to be. He does not speak of Egypt, as my curiosity often reminds me, but I respect that.

Harry, in return, wants to know about the Death Eaters – not what they did, which people are usually interested in, but what they were like and why. I describe a lot of them, even talk briefly about Regulus, though I do not disclose much and he does not seem to catch onto the nuances of that particular relationship. He steers me to say more of those who are still alive. I suspect that he is using the information I give him to prepare himself for battle against them.

When I inquire _which_ of them are still alive, I do not expect a straight answer. That is probably why I get one. It is startling to realise that from the original Dark Order, only four people including the Dark Lord himself survive. Switching sides was the smartest decision I have ever made.

While he plans how to approach the matter of Walden Macnair and Fenrir Greyback, I think of those who must have been dispatched in Whipsnade and that, with the exception of Nymphadora's clash with Rodolphus Lestrange, I have not heard of an Order member killing a Death Eater. Was it Potter who killed Alecto Carrows and Augustus Rookwood, two of the most notoriously feared sanguineous murderers among the Dark Lord's followers? Antigona Yaxley, Claudius Warrington, Adrian Pucey and Marcus Flint have also been lost there… I have not seen the carnage, but from the reports it sounded like there was _nothing_ left to identify even one of them.

When the students return, I half-expect him to stop haunting my sofa and spend more time with the Weasleys, but when I come in after dinner he is already there, curled up with a book on Talismans and Protection Charms.

"What do you think you are doing, Potter?" I know what he is doing. He is pulling away from his peers. From what I have seen, he has let Draco take his place in the Golden Trio and managed to make the shift so smooth, that his friends have yet to notice it.

He is burning bridges.

"Depends on what you're asking about," he replies, stretching his legs and picking a biscuit from a plate on the table. Colour has returned to his face but he still looks much too thin and I am glad to see him eating.

"Draco Malfoy."

"He's acting like an adult – I think he deserves to have the status, too." I do not know whether he has deliberately misinterpreted my question, does not think I notice him pushing away his friends or does not think it worth mentioning.

"What are you going to do after you kill the Dark Lord?"

He mouths something that I read as 'rot', but has the decency not to say it aloud.

"You know about the prophecy, don't you?"

I scowl. I _do_ know about the prophecy; I even have an idea about what it says. I have not heard it in its entirety, though.

"Only the part that I have relayed to the Dark Lord."

He closes his eyes and for a while the silence grows heavier. I could have told him that little fact in a better setting and delivered it more gently. I could have.

The Lightsphere flickers and the fibres of the carpet stand due to static electricity. Darkness descends – the outlines of the furniture are visible because of a soft green glow without a source – and I feel light-headed, as if the whole room swam. I spasmodically grip the armrests of my chair to keep upright. The air smells of ozone… The stillness and silence are eerie.

Then everything returns to normal and Harry looks up at me with such neutrality that I am not sure if I have just imagined it.

"I don't think I'll be coming back after I kill Voldemort – one way, or another."

I hate what he is saying, but in this instance it is more important that the reality of me having made him into what he is by my own, deliberate action (even though unknowingly) will not remain hanging between us. It is far too important.

"Potter-"

"It is bygone," he says with an indisputable seriousness. What kind of Gryffindor is he, to thrust my words back at me? "It makes me feel… less guilty."

Idiot. He has done nothing to me. His actions have smarted my pride, but they have not killed my parents, made me into the main target of a Dark Lord and generally fucked up my life past all reason.

"It-"

"I don't hold it against you. I can't hold it against you – for goodness' sake, I hadn't even been born yet…"

How does this stupid child _captivate_ me… What is it that allows him to forgive me – because I do believe that he would not have told me I was forgiven if I had not been – for all the pain and hatred he has been through? What makes him so accepting? Why does he deem _me_ worth that acceptance? All the obvious answers do not seem to touch the substance.

I stare into the pair of troubled malachite eyes and admit to myself that I am hopelessly lost.

"You will be alone," I warn him. The likelihood of my survival is even smaller than his and, on the off chance that we would both be alive after the Dark Lord will have died, I would not know where to go looking for him.

"I am the Boy Who Lived," he says as if it was the most obvious answer. "Alone is what I am."

No. No, he is not. _I_ am still here.

"Bullshit."

He blinks and then smiles a wry, world-weary smile.

"I'm being unfair to you again, am I not? Just smack me the next time so I know to keep my mouth shut."

"Potter, you exasperating midget…" Now to figure out what to say to him that would not be a waste of words… I cannot think of anything. Perhaps next time. "Just shut up."

x

I walk into the staff room after Viridian but before Hooch, seat myself next to Oglethorpe, who is nervously tugging on her braid and looks disconcertingly happy to see me. Dumbledore looks more austere than a monk's cell and, twinkle-free, surveys the occupants of the table.

"May I have your attention?" he asks serenely once we are seated. Viridian throws a suspicious glance to the corner decorated by a huge spider-web. How likely is it that the staff room has been warded against house elves?

"Has anyone seen Mr McAllister since last Tuesday?"

I do not shake my head, since joining the crowd in something so banal would likely alert a man as perceptive as Dumbledore. It means that I will be singled out within the next minute, but that is how it always happens.

"Vindictus?"

Viridian interlaces his fingers, impudently mocking one of Dumbledore's characteristic gestures.

"I can't help you, Headmaster. Sorry." He does not sound regretful at all, and it is obvious that Dumbledore resents his attitude. It goes a long way in keeping me out of the spotlight.

"Severus?"

"I have tried to find him yesterday after the Gryffindor first-years blew up _three_ cauldrons of Forgetfulness Potions _in a row_. In the end I had to call _the house elves_ to-"

"I gather you have not seen him?" Dumbledore interjects, losing patience.

"Obviously, Headmaster," I reply testily and Dumbledore moves onto another victim. The easiest trick, which every four-year-old knows, still works on the mightiest among men – whinging about it. My version is, naturally, slightly more dignified, but the effect is guaranteed.

The interrogation takes about five minutes, whereupon it is concluded by the grave Headmaster.

"It appears that the castle has been infiltrated. Marshall seems to have been abducted during the execution of his daily tasks. I believe it is prudent to examine the castle's wards."

I congratulate Harry and myself within the privacy of my Occlumentic shields. We have caught two Snidgets with one spell.


	30. Coward

A/N: Sorry for the wait

A/N: Sorry for the wait. RL remains turbulent for me now, so updates might be less than regular. They will, however, be delivered most certainly.  
This chapter was edited by the fabulous **cckeimig**. Big thanks!  
Brynn

x

Coward

x

Harry becomes used to sleeping over on my sofa. He never does it two nights in a row, but I have to inquire if his dorm-mates are not suspicious of his numerous night trips. He claims that they, of course, know that he is leaving, but he has made it exceedingly clear that it is none of their business.

When an irate wizard of Lord-level power tells someone to keep their nose out of his business, ninety-nine percent do so and the rest die. Since the Gryffindors arrive to breakfast in full numbers, it is obvious that put together they have at least one man's worth of self-preservation and common sense.

Since he has expressed plainly that he does not wish to cease with the visits, there are precautions to be taken. In the next Potions class he fails to produce the desired potion and, when I blow the 'mistake' out of proportion, even raises his voice at me. Anyone who knows the boy would see through the act – Harry does not yell, ever – but he later in the evening tells me that no one suspects anything. It is things like these that remind me of Arthur Weasley (and, by extension, William) and make me wonder whether any of the older Weasleys would have noticed.

"Do you not miss them?" I ask him one night in the middle of January, long after we should have gone to sleep. I have classes the next day and he… he should probably live healthily or something… but, despite all my snide comments, he still does not believe he will survive the war. The Dark Lord has converted what remains of his allies into guerrilla fighters and they are causing extensive damage to unimportant and warfare-unrelated targets. I know that Harry is having visions of those raids, although those he has had in my living room were always from Nagini's point of view. He grows physically stronger day by day, but the dark circles under his eyes deepen.

He pushes his hair out of his eyes and shrugs. "Not really. They are there if I need them for anything… I just find that I don't."

I try to remember what it is that teenage Gryffindors fill their free time with: Quidditch (which Harry was banned from playing), pranks (which Harry does not like to pull, unlike his accursed progenitor), breaking rules (which Harry does in a more spectacular way than his classmates, and with incomparably further-reaching consequences), making noise (which Harry avoids) and, in rare, bushy-haired cases, studying.

Harry still studies a lot, but the subjects are different, more advanced and far more specialised than whatever Granger is forcibly stuffing Weasley's head with. I have not asked him yet, but I suspect he knows enough to pass a couple of N.E.W.T.s with acceptable marks and does not care about more. In his mind, he will not live to take them anyway.

"Do you not want for companionship?"

"You are companionship."

Yes, but I am also 'cranky and crabby', lacking in sense of humour and enjoyable topics for conversations… also in social skills, manners and tolerance for other human beings (with one notable exception, which I still claim is due to his unparalleled quietness).

"Your taste in companionship is deplorable."

"I doubt you have enough experience to judge," he throws back easily. That is true, but there still must be a thousand things that I cannot provide him… Only, it occurs to me, maybe he does not need those. Maybe he needs a silent place of relative privacy where he is not bothered by endless questions, irrepressible cheer and _people_.

"If you needed something, would you ask for it?"

He gives me a curious, searching look. I pretend that it is not objectionable.

"If I _needed_ it," he allows, stressing the 'need'. I will have to content myself with that.

x

On the eighteenth I wake up unusually early for it being Saturday. During the night I must have kicked off the blanket. It is bunched around my ankles, while my knees ache with cold – which, I realise in hindsight, is what has roused me.

I recall that this weekend is the one the Headmaster designated for the thorough examination of wards. The castle is going to be crawling with members of the Order of the Phoenix… the line of thought is forgotten when I notice the empty sofa. It is, naturally, a perfectly normal sight, except that I am certain that Harry fell asleep there about – a quick check of the clock – five hours earlier. And now he is gone.

There might be a simple explanation for the occurrence, but I have been around Harry long enough to know that rarely is anything simple with him. Besides, my instincts are screaming at me. I try to remember if he said or did anything strange yesterday, but nothing comes to mind… only that he slept in longer than he usually does… then again, he had gone to sleep later than he usually does…

After fifteen minutes, during which I obtain coffee that, for some inexplicable reason, comes with a bar of Honeydukes chocolate, I persuade myself that there is no earthly excuse for Harry's absence which does not spell trouble.

x

Locating the Bloody Baron when he is not intent on finding myself turns out to be a very time-consuming task. Eventually the much-required assistance comes from the Grey Lady, who offers to contact him.

Less than five minutes later I face the familiar silvery blood-splattered doublet.

"Blanche tells me you wish to see me," he states neutrally. The automatic response would be 'Does she?', but there is no time for nonchalance right now. I will make up for it when Harry has returned.

"Where is Harry Potter?"

"What makes you think I would know?" he asks, leaning against the wall, as if the substance could help keep him upright, and examining his nails. Not for the first time I have the impression that he was related to the Malfoys – if he had been, there would be at least one slightly logical reason for him to support Harry's side of the current disagreement.

"I," I start in a low voice, but then think better of it and cast a Silencing Bubble, "am alive for the sole purpose of protecting him and assisting him in the fight against the Dark Lord. If I am going to be left behind when he goes to battle, I may as well lie down and die."

It is not an empty threat, although I would hesitate before carrying it out – I use it mostly because I know that the Baron likes me. It seems to work, too.

"Perhaps he wishes to have someone to return to…"

I raise an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of the statement. Harry is not nearly Gryffindorish enough to subscribe to this level of sentimentality. He would not be able to kill emotionlessly if he was.

"The boy said that you cannot go with him this time," the ghost says in the end. I do not doubt that Harry did proclaim something like that, but the decision is up to me, and I wish to be there… wherever there is. For a Slytherin, I am not acting according to the right codes…

"I am a better judge of my own capability than he is."

The Baron copies my expression of polite incredulity, but relents.

"In that case, he went to a place on the coast and he took that… _protégé_ of his with him to let him into the wards. _Are_ you capable of following him?"

As a matter of fact, I am. There are two Malfoy residences directly on the coast and, as a member of the Inner Circle; I was keyed into the wards of both after the Dark Lord's second rise.

x

The one I need is, as always, the second house that I check. Actually, 'house' did not do the building justice when I visited this place the last time, gathering intelligence (at the risk of my life) for Dumbledore's Vigilante Club to play soldiers with.

The grounds have been turned into a training facility, but upon closer inspection it is obvious that it was not meant for the training of wizards. The secondary wards are keyed mere yards from what looks like a rabbit hutch for _extremely_ overgrown rabbits. The crates are wooden, but fitted into iron cages.

This is where they meant to take the swamp dragons.

"Someone has entered the wards," I hear a familiar voice inform. "A Death Eater, alone."

I look over the crates. The building itself looks worse for wear, with windows shattered and the face all but blasted off with spells. The terrace on the ground level is the stage of Harry Potter's latest escapade. I suppress both the urge to run away as fast as possible and to beat my head against the edge of the nearest cage.

There are five people facing off. On one side, closer to me, there is Potter and Draco, standing side by side and looking quite confident, as though it was a mere brawl between Slytherin and Gryffindor students. Opposite them, near the front door of the house, stand two Death Eaters and in between them the Dark Lord himself.

The brats have once again outdone themselves.

"Why do you serve that half-blood, Malfoy?" The Dark Lord levels a hateful glare at Harry, who bears it stoically. I know that he is in fact proud of Draco and that the Slytherin feels similarly. There will be no stabbing in the back between those two. "What has he promised you that outshines power and riches?"

"Well…" Draco squares his shoulders as if he was uncomfortable with the topic rather than quaking in his boots (which I am certain he must be), "it sounds really banal when put like this… but I sort of love him."

The Dark Lord is too shocked to do anything but sneer.

"'Love'? That is it? What is _love_? A pathetic concept of those who are too weak to stand on their own. It's not real. It doesn't exist. It's a fairy tale. A soap bubble. I would have thought a Malfoy would be above such plebeian phenomena."

I remember – it was not so long ago – when I believed this. 'Love' was a Gryffindor thing, like bravery and chivalry, only less defined and far less real… It is real, although very rare. There is nothing pathetic, nothing weak about it – on the contrary, it can become a source of strength. It does not make one do irrational or downright stupid things; it merely rearranges the priorities in an order incomprehensible to someone who has not experienced it.

"Draco," Potter addresses the boy with a calm like no other human being could express in the Dark Lord's presence, "_this_ is the moment when you get out of here."

Draco was never an obedient child, not to mention the number of school rules he broke – as many as Harry did, only for far less extenuating reasons – therefore it is difficult for me to accept that a single sarcastic remark from another sixteen-year-old could make him do something he obviously does not agree with.

"Take care of yourself," he says too quietly for me to hear over the wind, but even from this distance I can read it.

Lord Malfoy, in true Malfoy fashion, turns on his heel and runs, followed a second later by an _Avada Kedavra_. Harry lets out a blast of something that looks a lot like raw magic to hit the Unforgivable, deflecting it from its course, and dances on the spot to avoid two identical curses sent at him.

"Can't take me on alone, Tom? You know, you do have something in common with dementors, aside from that sickly visage… your spine seems to crumble as soon as I'm in sight."

I cannot believe that brat's brashness. I shall kill him with my own two hands if he survives this… provoking one of the most dangerous wizards in the world!

After what the bolder Death Eaters used to refer to as 'the graveyard fiasco', the Dark Lord does not fall for it, anyway. He silently orders the two Death Eaters, now identifiable as Walden Macnair and Fenrir Greyback, to step forward, casts another Avada after the running Slytherin (who is going to be in detention until he graduates) and hides in the shadows at the back of the terrace.

Draco jumps, with agility that is either new or has been kept hidden very well, over the top of a crate and lands on his backside. The wood above his head explodes in a cloud of splinters. He looks up and with a coquettishness that must come from the Blacks blows a loose strand of hair out of his face.

Then he finally notices me. It is Potter's damnable luck having rubbed off on Draco that I am myself and not any other Marked person on the face of the Earth. Instead of showing remorse for his criminal lack of caution, he looks to Harry, back to me and lifts an eyebrow (this gesture is becoming far too common among my students). I would very much like to hex the smirk off his face, but that can wait.

I gesture him to get out of here and turn back to the terrace…

…where Harry slices off Macnair's hand with a well-placed _Sectumsempra_. The man howls and staggers backwards. The heavy axe he once executed dangerous creatures with (but which is also his favoured weapon in battle since it allows him greater reach and the use of brute force against virtually anything) falls onto the floor and chips off the edge of a marble tile.

"No smart comments now?" the idiot child has the gall to ask.

"I'll eat your flesh…" Greyback growls. Harry groans, probably attempting to enunciate the lameness of the remark, but his exasperation is lost on the werewolf, who takes a few seconds to pick up the severed hand and lick at its bloody side.

The brat sends a fireball at him, which makes him let go of the disgusting thing and leap up on the railing. When the flame sizzles against the iron bars and dies, Greyback jumps back down, choosing to attack physically.

Harry lifts the axe (that he physically should not be able to move) as easily as if it was made of sedge and aluminium. He swings to the left, high, the blade sliding through Macnair's throat like butter. It describes a gentle loop in the mid-air, and spins him around, where he brings the red-stained arch down and sinks it into Greyback's stomach.

He never lets go of the handle, keeping both of them upright. Greyback gurgles. Harry has a stare-down with the dead man, which he, naturally, wins when Greyback slumps and folds on the ground, ripping the axe out of Harry's hands. The boy watches it leave him without regret.

He makes certain that the werewolf is truly dead and gazes at the front door of the house, which is open.

"Tom, you bloody coward!" he yells. I realise that the Dark Lord has fled and am about to declare it a win for Harry, when the air goes cold. I turn around, but there is nothing there. Somehow, though, it seems as if the site suddenly darkened…

A blur of black sweeps straight down in front of me and grips my shoulders. It does not sink into the snow, rather seems to float above it… like a ghost… a very dark…

I cannot breathe. The thing holds me in place and I cannot use my wand to defend myself… cannot even yell for Potter, no matter how humiliating it is to need saving… The thing leans forward and I can see that under its tattered hood there is a faceless head with only a black hole of a mouth, open wide without any ligaments to hold the jowl, sucking in all that is warm and good… The skin is milky white, rippling like liquid, gaining green shades where it momentarily uncovers something older and crusted. 'Sickly visage' is a gross understatement.

A huge lonomia crawls out of the mouth. It makes it down the scabbed hand and onto my neck until I realise it is not real. Then I receive a quick viewing of the 'scrapbook of memories'… _Cruciatus_ cast on me, myself casting it on Warrington… Edgecombe… a nameless Muggle… Potter hanging me upside-down and taking off my trousers… Potter blowing up a potion, Evans striking me… Lupin slamming me against a wall, my skull cracking… Regulus bleeding in my arms… burns on sixty-five percent of my body… a werewolf towering over me, jaws wide-open, stinking breath, sharp yellow teeth, dripping drool… "Mudblood!" …Black, emaciated and murderous… Potter hissing at a snake… Potter covered in slime and blood… Potter slamming into a lamppost… Potter Summoning a phial from my hand… Potter, lying spread-eagled on the Slytherin-green grass, Avada Kedavra eyes staring blankly at the sky…

Suddenly, the images are gone and the black hole, mere inches from my face, moves rapidly backwards. A hand reaches from behind the wavy black cape, grasps what would have been a man's jaw and jerks sharply to the left. The figure crumples and Harry, demure and scowling, appears in my field of vision.

"I stand corrected," he says dispassionately. "You _can_ give a dementor _the old one-two_."

I am still far from having my mental faculties about myself, but… a dementor? That was a… a dementor… and it was trying… to Kiss me… How the Hell can he look so calm?! I have almost lost my soul-

"What?!" I finally manage to articulate. I am far too cold for it to bother me anymore, simply gone completely numb and caring very little whether I am going to die. It is the irrelevant things suddenly standing out. Two long scratches across Harry's left cheek, bleeding. The way he wipes the red trickle with the tip of his tongue. The snow… melting around his feet. The crease in the centre of his forehead.

"As I said to Voldemort," he tells me with faux nonchalance, "their spines are very fragile."

He spins on his heel and sets out in the direction of the perimeter of the wards, leaving me rooted on the spot where the dementor caught me. The carcass is bleeding repulsive white sludge.

"Potter!" I call. He ignores me. I force my seemingly stony limbs to obey and carry me in his wake. "Why are you out of school?!"

"I had to take care of something," he replies tonelessly and I feel the discord. He is angry – or, rather, raging – and it is not because of perceived failure. _I_ am the cause of this.

"What are you pouting about now?!" My voice is louder than necessary, but, for Morgana's sake, I have a right to be pissed off, too. He just disappeared from my quarters and I found out he had gone for a little rendezvous with the Dark Lord!

"Even Draco respected my wishes." He halts and suddenly I am facing two blazing green eyes. His cheeks are red in anger and power rolls off him in waves, which is the reason for the snow melting around him. He breathes rapidly, as is clearly visible because the moron did not bother putting on a coat. He went out into January weather in only his school uniform. Idiot!

"Draco is your charge. _I_ am _not_." I am his equal but, if I had refused that role, I could have been his guardian. I am the one who lives to protect him, the one who has nightmares about the Dark Lord killing him, the one who-

"I don't like you seeing me like that," he states quietly. A while later, after my brain has begun to work to its full capacity again, deciding to postpone the reaction to the dementor, I digest the information. He seems to have missed a very important point in our dealings with each other.

"You will have to become accustomed to it," I tell him, remorseless. Is this some kind of twisted self-hate? Am I, according to him, supposed to mould in my dungeon and wait for him to return? Does he want to…? What does he want?

He hangs his head and turns away again, continuing his way. I fall into step almost next to him, just so that he still stays in the lead but I can see his expression. He looks defeated, despite the victory he has won for himself, despite destroying the dementor with ease… His sadness irks me. I cannot gauge his motivation, past trying to stop the guerrilla fighters, but he could not have hoped it would have been so quick a job, could he? Even if the Dark Lord was killed today, his legacy would continue, his followers would kill people…

…only Harry would not witness it in his sleep. I think I understand _now_. I catch his shoulder just before he Disapparates and pull him closer to me, raise my wand and silently set to healing the scratches on his face.

He endures the process with equal taciturnity. Eventually there are no traces left of the injuries. I clean his face of all red smudges and let my fingers linger as long as possible without it being obvious. He frowns at the muddy ground under our feet.

"Why do I bother with you?" he mutters.

"Because you love me," I reply, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

"Yeah, I'm pathetic like that."

The retort is simple enough. I am shocked, though, to realise that he has spoken with candidness. There was not a trace of irony in that self-deprecating statement. I look up to meet his eyes, but he is staring blankly in a different direction. Merlin knows if he is even aware of what he has just told me.

"Potter… you…" It is not that the words fail me (though they do), I just want to provoke some reaction (preferably vocal) from him rather than be forced to attempt formulate how _I_ feel about… everything.

He looks at me, eyes filling with darkness, longing and, subsequently, the self-hatred I have intuited.

"What did you think it was?" he bites out, sneering. The expression drops from his face quickly, though, and all that is left is weariness. He is afraid of how I might react to the revelation – never mind that I have long since been ensnared by him. "You were so good to me…"

"Good to you?!" I realise I am yelling at him, but, damn it, I have just been almost Kissed by a dementor and then told by… by _Harry_ that he… "Where have you been living, Potter? I was a _bastard_ to you-"

"Maybe not on the surface…" he cuts in. Somehow, his palm ends up resting against my breastbone. "…but where it matters. You took care of me. So many times… I would never have lived so long without you." He pushes me away with more force than should rightly be possible for such a small body and Apparates away.

Goddamn sixteen years, and to him it is 'so long'. How unfair can life get?


	31. A Hero

A/N: Thank you all for your feedback

A/N: Thank you all for your feedback! Just one more chapter to go after this, so stay tuned!

The lovely **cckeimig** is to be thanked for the readability and grammatical correctness.

Brynn

x

A Hero

x

I follow practically on Harry's heels, correctly estimating that he would use the passage under the Shrieking Shack. His knowledge of passive defensive magic was already above average during the summer – now, after he has read his way through a part of William's library, it must be extensive – therefore it does not surprise me that he has managed to rig the wards. What I would like to know, though, is how he persuaded the ghost guards to cover for him – the Fat Friar, currently stationed in the underground corridor, is the third one to not even mention that Harry has passed through.

I have to jump out of the way when the Whomping Willow comes to life while I am still in its reach. Harry does not even look back at my, admittedly offensive, exclamation of surprise. I curse all homicidal flora and in the same breath Lupin, who is the aboriginal reason for the monstrosity's presence on Hogwarts grounds, and Harry, who failed to destroy it completely despite having made such a promising attempt.

Ascending to the front gates, I spell the snow away. The draught slams the heavy wooden door (fortunately only) metaphorically into my face. I push against it with all the angry energy I have burning inside.

The Entrance Hall is not nearly as empty as would be desirable. I want to catch Potter and have words, a lot of big, meaningful, angry words, with him, but it has to wait, because Draco (who has apparently been waiting for Harry and biting all those perfectly manicured nails, and to whom I owe a hex and long months of detention) launches himself from the cocoon of the Gryffindor elite onto Harry.

"Reckless fool!" Draco shouts, hanging around Harry's neck with desperation that looks disconcertingly familiar. Ginevra tears herself from Ronald and Granger to come over to where Harry is doing all he can to calm the overemotional teenager in his arms. She gives him a kiss that could only with difficulty be interpreted as platonic, which inspires Draco to copy the action and me to take copious points from both Houses.

"Did… did you…" the Slytherin stammers. Harry grimaces and shakes his head.

"The bastard sent his bootlickers at me and ran away through the back…"

"Coward."

Considering that the insult is delivered by Ronald, it sounds slightly too much like 'Slytherin', but even that is an improvement over the past.

"You have detention, Potter," I say before I am forced to witness more cuddling. "Tonight."

I stride away, not waiting for an acknowledgement. He has heard me and I hope that the newest discord between us is not deep enough for the anger to overwhelm the rest of the emotional baggage.

x

The only sound he makes while entering is the soft click of the lock. It is enough for me to take notice, even as I sit on the sofa, with my back turned to the door. I do not usually sit here – I have long since learned to seek out positions from which I can see all entrances – however, this is a… a kind of a test.

He becomes aware of it quickly and a tiny hesitation is all that gives it away before he takes his customary place, less than a foot away from me.

Once again, he defies expectations. I was fairly certain that he would have sat in one of the armchairs or, more likely, on the floor. His proximity makes me nervous… more nervous than him… damn it, he did it intentionally!

"Who are you angry at?" I ask him reasonably. I want this to be out of the way. I need to know which direction we are taking from here.

It is by far the oddest detention I have ever assigned.

"Me. You. Dumbledore. Voldemort." More fool, I, for thinking the answer would be simple. The annoyance with Dumbledore is shared between us and for the moment irrelevant. The wrath at the Dark Lord, a completely different kind and level of anger, we also share, but our past experience with the monster makes it impossible for us to empathise fully on that account. It is down to him and me.

"Why are you angry at yourself?"

He seems surprised that I ask about him first, even though he had stated himself as first, too.

"I talk too much and move too slowly."

Torn between exasperation, amusement and agreement, I press a glass of wine (which is the only alcohol apart from sherry possible to obtain from the school house elves) into his hand. For a moment he is confused, but then he shrugs, marginally lifts the drink in a mockery of salute and takes a swallow.

"Is this a statement?" he asks, glaring at the deep red liquid.

"It is several," I reply truthfully. Most of them have come subconsciously – for example, it occurred to me only now that I should not give alcohol to a student. But we have been there before. "If you were a group of Aurors, right now you would be congratulating yourself for having done a marvellous job and looking forward to receiving a medal tomorrow."

He laughs, which means that he must not be too cross with me.

"Yeah, but medals are for figureheads, not for killers."

"You cannot avoid the label 'hero' forever."

"Sure can't," he scoffs, "got it etched right here." He points at the lightning bolt scar, which, truth to be told, is not visible at all since he has grown his hair. "But I don't have to refer to myself as that, just as you don't have to call yourself a 'Death Eater', no matter what the self-righteous arseholes spout."

This – this sarcastic view of the world and these dry humourless observations – is what I appreciate about him the most. It is also why we can tolerate each other. To anyone else, we seem too callous and too crude.

"You speak when you have something to say," I tell him, "and do what you can. You are not omnipotent, no matter what little children and Gryffindors of any size believe." I startle another laugh from him. It is gone quickly, like the first one was, and leaves him yet little less irritated.

"I'm still angry at you. I know why you went and I know what made you mad and I… in your place I would probably do the same. I understand, and I'm still angry." There is a great amount of helplessness in that fractured statement. It has not occurred to me that he is feeling guilty because he feels angry and then feeling angrier because he feels guilty. It is one vicious catch twenty-two.

Also, which I have nearly forgotten about, he probably is afraid.

"I do not hold anything that happened today against you." Not really, I do not. Like he said, I understand his motivation and, while I would have acted differently in his place, he does have a very different set of limitations.

"Not even…" he trails off, which makes the query understandable. I hesitate. It could be the moment of truth, or a moment for a platitude… I was never a particularly brave man… but what does this have to do with bravery? He has seen all of me there is. If he can sit here, unconcerned, ironically perhaps feeling safer than he does anywhere else…

"I am not a hypocrite." I am merely jealous. The ridiculous peck he gave me for saving William's life (fat lot of good that did) suddenly makes much more sense, as does the conversation between William and Arthur I overheard. Now it seems so stupid, so selfish and shameful to have envied William so. I regret his death as much as one can regret not knowing a person whose companionship they might have genuinely enjoyed.

He twists on the sofa so that he is turned away from me. His shoulders shake, but in the silence I have no idea whether he is laughing or crying. Only after a careful deliberation I reach out to touch him.

He shakes his head, but that is not enough of an answer. I have just bared the most vulnerable part of myself to him and, goddamn it, I expect some kind of a reaction! I do not believe that he is laughing at me, but I need to know if he is hysterical or what the problem is.

"Potter-"

"At least call me Harry for fuck's sake!"

At least I now know that he is trying not to cry. I do not understand why. If he wants to, then he should go ahead, but I also cannot see why he would want to. That is not something to _cry_ about. On the other hand, there is no rational reason why I feel like calling him 'Harry' would be admitting this… _it_ aloud.

"At least you are not spitting fire anymore," I grumble with minimal irritation and reach for my glass of wine. He takes several minutes to calm down before he sits straight again.

"I thought you were going to verbally lynch me… or be deeply offended… maybe even have me cleaning cauldrons and then kick me out. It didn't even occur to me that you might admit that… it would be hypocritical of you to hate me for admitting that I have emotions."

I chuckle. He has worded that very, _very_ carefully. He is half-smirking, half-smiling at me over the rim of his glass. I catch myself staring, just a little, when a strand of hair falls into my right eye. I grimace and he reaches out his hand to push it aside… and does not retreat afterwards.

I do not defend myself when he sidles closer until his collarbone touches my shoulder and slowly, as if waiting for me to pull away, puts his left arm around my neck. The sides of our faces are touching, his right hand is in my hair and it feels very… _nice_.

"The offer…" he says quietly, and I only have suspicions as to which one he means (and wonder how is it possible that of the whole conversation, 'the offer' is the only thing he remembers), "…still stands."

I shift him so that he is less likely to twist his spine and hold him like I did in the torture chamber, only with less desperation and many more doubts.

"You are still a student."

But there will be a time when he will not be, and if he does not change his mind, I _will_ take the risk.

x

I stare at the page of the book I have borrowed from the library only to find it woefully inadequate. There is an entire chapter on dementors, but all of that is a history of their use and speculations about their origin. Even the Patronus Charm is only mentioned as a footnote.

Wizards are idiots.

"How did you know about dementors' spines being fragile?"

Harry looks up from the Muggle paperback, lent to him by some Gryffindor who is _not_ Granger, and sighs. He shuts the book, sets it on the sofa and comes over to me to check what I am reading.

"This is more useful than most," he notes, which does not make my frustration abate in the least. "The fact is that no one has come near enough to a dementor to have specific information to write down _and_ was able to write afterwards. Or speak. Or do much of anything." Which is a rather mild way of describing having their souls sucked out through-

I shudder. I still do, every time I remember it.

"You're pretty special in that way. One tried to Kiss me when I was thirteen, but didn't get as close as that one got to you. Other than that, I know about Sirius, but he was unconscious at the time… and­… Pollux Merrythought. I was… too slow."

I dimly recall a conversation with a rather traumatised Nymphadora. I was brewing at the time, so a part of my concentration was elsewhere, but she mentioned something about Harry attempting to pry a dementor off of Merrythought…

"Almost the entire Order was there. Nobody else did anything at all."

He nods, but I know he is not convinced. Yesterday he said that he was angry at himself for 'talking too much and moving too slowly'. Obviously, Merrythought belongs into the second category.

Harry stares vacantly at the wall where Angelo's portrait used to hang and speaks again: "When a dementor comes that close to you, what happens must be an exchange, according to all known laws of magic. It's just that the victim is not in the mental state to be able to perceive anything from the outside. But the fact remains that when you saw your worst memories, the dementor saw its."

"You Legilimised a dementor?!" I ask incredulously. He pales and vehemently shakes his head.

"I don't want to know what would happen to the idiot that tried that. No. I just touched it when it was… sucking out Merrythought's… soul…" He falls silent for a while to compose himself. I recall yesterday as one of the worst experiences in my life; I cannot imagine the horror of what _that_ must have been like. It still enrages me to think that _he_ consoled Lupin (and the rest of the snivellers) that night.

"They are scared of physical force. The paralysation by fear and cold they use is a natural defence, necessary because of their frame – they fly with such ease because their bones are like a bird's: hollow. A child could kill one… As it is, no one has ever heard of a dementor being killed. They are always simply banished."

I rub my temples and look back at the book, with its depictions of dementors as guardians of Azkaban and executioners of criminals. For centuries, perhaps millennia, these creatures have been the nightmares witches scared their misbehaving children with; grown men ran at the sight of them… and Harry simply shrugs and claims that there is nothing to fear because they have fragile bones?

x

On the twenty-fifth the situation from a week ago repeats itself, with the small difference of me already being awake when Harry tries to sneak out. I hiss out an '_Incendio_' and light all the candles on the mantelpiece at once. He startles and spins around. Guilt flashes on his face before it gives into determination.

"Where are you going?" I ask him.

"You know where I am going."

I scowl harder and he lifts his chin higher. I dislike arguing (which, I have found, is a necessary part of spending any amount of time around anyone who has a hint of personality) with him but this is something I cannot let pass. Why would he sneak out and not tell me of it is beyond me. It is not as if I would try to stop him.

"I am going with you."

He stands as tall as his diminutive figure allows him to and states: "Not this time."

I _am_ going with him. If he thinks that I will let him go out to confront the Dark Lord on his own, he is mistaken. I summon my Death Eater robes, which I have not burnt simply for their high quality and practicality in an eventual fight. The mimicry might be a bonus in this case.

"I mean it."

The urgent, pleading tone makes me pause in what I am doing and meet his eyes.

"I cannot just sit here and do nothing, waiting to see if you return whole… if you return at all." I blame the openness on the early hour – some of the students maybe have not gone to sleep yet.

Harry sneers. "And if you die, who will save the world from me?" he asks forcefully.

I had not thought of that. He has not shown the irrationality I have associated with the Dark Lord for so long that I considered the problem dealt with, the matter closed, and all but forgot about it in the midst of all that has been happening.

I walk forward, to the centre of the living room, and throw the bundle of black fabric onto the sofa.

He has a much better chance of coming out of a duel against the Dark Lord unscathed on his own. I would only get into his way – that was why he sent Draco away first thing when they last met – and if I died even as collateral damage… Does that mean I truly am his only anchor? He said that he needed me so he could kill the bastard and already then I knew he did not mean my participation in the fight itself… in light of the more recent revelations, the statement makes more sense.

"Promise me you will do everything in your power to come back." I startle myself with how insistent I sound.

He nods decisively and strides to me, putting his arms around me and breathing in harshly. With his head bent backwards, he stares at me with a perplexing mixture of emotions, the most prominent of which is gratefulness. I shall never understand him. Right now, though, I think of how Ginevra and Draco kissed him… and why could I not do the same?

So I do. It is wrong and somehow overwhelming. I feel something breaking, some kind of invisible barrier – this is how I imagine Eve felt when she bit into that accursed apple for the first time. It is sweet and too brief and, as I watch him walk out the door, I am afraid I will not be able to stop myself from taking another taste.

x

After lunch the Headmaster summons me into his office. My best guess is that he is aware of Harry's absence – he must monitor the wards – and also of our joint trip last week. It _is_ logical to ask me.

I decline the obligatory lemon drop, sniff the offered cup of tea – only to detect the scent of a mild Calming potion and decline that as well. He asks questions that aim next at what he actually wants to know, and I reply in complete truthfulness, merely embellishing my ignorance of Harry's whereabouts. It is not as easy as it used to be to pretend that I dislike him when all I can think about is the kiss. Not that it was much of a kiss. Certainly not in the Earth-shattering category. There is no reason for me to act like this…

"Severus, you are thousand miles away," Dumbledore says with a smile that gets on my nerves so much that I decide then and there that fuck the school rules and fuck the Headmaster's warped notion of morality. He would agree to it anyway if he thought it would help the war effort… which is an interesting idea. Maybe, if it blows up, I can claim to have had his permission. I would not be listened to in that case, naturally, but it would be something to throw into the old man's face while the rest of the moralists burn me at a stake.

There is no easy way to state this kind of question. 'Sir, I seek your permission to screw the Golden Boy' likely would not work, and I am afraid that neither would 'Headmaster, a boy twenty years younger than me and coincidentally my student propositioned me. I want to pursue a relationship with him, but am not sure whether it is ethical?'

I pace along the wall, there and back, there and back… He keeps twinkling at me patiently over his half-moon spectacles, and I am almost fooled by his faux-omniscient façade. I mentally kick myself. He does not know about anything that goes on in my quarters unless I relay it to him. The air of omniscience is designed specifically to make people talk about their secrets because they _feel_ like the Headmaster already knows anyway. I will not fall for it _ever_ again.

"Headmaster…" I start slowly, carefully, designing an ambiguous question he can tie to almost anything in that over-crowded head of his. I need to formulate an inquiry that will help me get the desired answer, but at the same time will not give away the true purpose of my asking.

"Have you ever committed an act you knew to be fundamentally wrong?" I say finally, letting his eyes bore into me and returning the favour. I feel the gentle probing on my mental shields, but my past debts are paid, and my privacy not his to invade anymore.

"Too many times to count, Severus…" he replies with a wan smile, but the twinkle in his eyes is magnified. He fancies me reformed, since I am asking about morals and conscience.

"Why did you do it?" It may be cruel or inappropriate to ask, and he has every right to not answer. Yet, being Dumbledore, he cannot pass an opportunity to imprint some deep wisdom on any of his children – in this instant the unfortunate me.

"Because, in the end…" the Headmaster sighs, interlacing his long, gnarled fingers, "things turned out to be better than they would have been otherwise." The smile becomes more radiant as he reminds himself along with me that all the hard, painful and unfair choices he made in the past have borne fruit in the present, and we are yet to see what the future will bring. But Voldemort does not stand a chance. If not Dumbledore, then Harry or I or someone else will stand up and bring the monster down.

That is the only possible ending – the destruction of the Dark Lord. But on the way there, there are too many things we can lose… In my mind's eye I see Harry Potter's dead body, spread-eagled on Slytherin-green grass with a trickle of Gryffindor-red blood running down his cheek from the corner of his (kissable) mouth, Avada Kedavra eyes staring blankly at the sky. That image makes my decision final.

If this demon wants my condemnation, who am I to deny him?

"Thank you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore twinkles at my back as I leave his office, unaware of the upturn of the corner of my lips. Let him believe he knows all – as long as he does not doubt himself, he will not start truly looking.


	32. The Demon And The Sinner

A/N: Here it is

A/N: Here it is. The end. I'm feeling a tiny bit numb right now, so I can't say if I'm happy or sad that it's over, but I want to once again thank each and every one of you who read, reviewed, added the story (or the author) to your alerts/favourites and recommended it to others. I realise that I have neglected my readers and often didn't find the time to respond to their questions and feedback, but I've read every single review and can't express in a few lines just how much they mean to me. How about I write another story for you instead (if RL allows…)? It's been a long ride and both Harry and Severus deserve some rest finally.

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as much as you've enjoyed the previous ones, that you keep something of the story with yourself and that, if you are curious about how it ends, you go and check out _And yet…_ Please, keep in mind that _And yet…_ had been written months before the idea of _Pantogogue_ even occurred to me.

This chapter was edited by the marvelous **cckeimig**, so one big applause for her, please.

Thanks, _everybody_. Signing out… Brynn.

x

The Demon and the Sinner

x

I stand on the ramparts, hidden under a Disillusionment Charm, and look for Harry's return. I refuse to even contemplate any other possibility, preferring to occupy my mind with berating myself for falling into patterns both pathetic and fatuous.

When he finally appears, it feels as though a weight was lifted off me. I can breathe easier and January is not quite as frigid. I need to suppress something wild and bright inside me to stop myself from either laughing of crying with relief. _I was a fool to think I could escape him_.

When he approaches the steps, I recognise the shape he is levitating – it is Pettigrew's body. The small surge of vindication is mostly on Harry's behalf, but I am glad to see that man dead for many reasons.

I go back my quarters, requesting a tea set on the way there, and take my place in the armchair by the fire. It is likely going to be long yet until the Headmaster and the called Aurors release Harry. Chances are that he is going to wait for Black's exoneration… I have the entire rest of my life, though. The decision has been made and the knowledge that he has returned relatively unharmed is enough to quell my worst fears.

x

The door opens much sooner than I anticipated. There is still tea left for him. Dumbledore would have offered him some, but he might not have taken it for the same reason why I did not earlier in the day.

"They're calling a session of the Wizengamot tomorrow," he explains, skipping over a lot of details straight to the conclusion. He has probably figured out that I knew of his return and spent the time until now thinking of the possible consequences. It is refreshing to speak to someone capable of estimating my thought process… although slightly disturbing.

I gesture him to come to me. He takes off his cloak and outer robe on the way and I realise that he has been wounded and the Headmaster has not bothered to call Pomfrey to look at him.

I help him take off his shirt, even though he does not ask for assistance, and inspect the damage. It looks like several uncoordinated swipes of a four-nailed paw. I give him a questioning look.

"Pettigrew had a silver hand – a gift from Voldemort." I am aware of that, naturally. All Death Eaters, past or present, are. "Most of these-" Harry gestures at his chest, "-were made when he was convulsing. Not my direct fault," he adds, although I would not have accused him of such.

"They must be disinfected," I inform him. "It will hurt."

He scoffs, which I interpret as his acquiesce to have the potion applied. He clenches his jaw, which is the only indication of pain I can see apart from the involuntary tensing of muscles. I belatedly realise that he is standing half-naked in the middle of my quarters.

Deciding not to broach that particular topic just yet, I finish closing the cuts in silence. He looks very tired by the time I am done and lets me lead him into the bedroom without protest. It is still far too early for me to go to sleep and the sofa is not… well, I will be using that room in the meantime. It does not make sense to wake him up every time I pass by.

I lend him one of my shirts, which is rather big on him, though not nearly as big as the clothes he used to get from his relatives. He casts a Cleaning Charm on himself, solving that issue without me having to offer him the use of the bathroom. He sits on the side of the bed and looks at me, as if he wanted me to tell him what to do. I shamelessly take advantage of the situation.

"Why do you think you want me?" I ask him. It is not a bad opening – to the point and yet in his exhaustion it might take him a while to realise that there is a major change happening.

He stares at me in mild confusion.

"Why do you sometimes want scotch? Why do you get hungry?" He shrugs. I cannot see the comparison. "It's just… chemistry."

"This…" I gesture between us, but from his expression it is apparent that I have to be more particular, "my being your anchor…" He nods to indicate that he has caught on. "It is not one-sided. If you misstep-"

"I die?" he inserts. Not necessarily, but I will not be a puppet on his strings. I would cut those strings and with them would go my life, his sanity… and Merlin knows what else. "That is upping the stakes a bit much, isn't it?" He smiles, happier than I have seen him in a long time, though I ascribe that to the exhaustion. "But I'll take that bet."

"Do not make fun of it," I warn him. This is no light matter and I must be sure that he knows what he is doing. I have not allowed anyone into my personal space for longer than he has been alive and I will not do so if he might just move onto another conquest in a few weeks. I believe that he would not… but I must be absolutely certain. "If there is to be a relationship between us, it will be the second most serious thing in your life, Potter, right behind killing the Dark Lord."

Not even the use of his surname seems to sober him. He looks disgustingly giddy. The exhaustion has caught up with him; it would be better just to let him sleep.

"You're basically saying that if I get you, I'll have to keep you?" he lies down and pulls the covers up to his chin. His voice becomes muffled. "Well, that works for me. I want to keep you for as long as I've got left."

x

Shortly after midnight Harry emerges, looking young and indecent, dressed only in underwear and my shirt, displaying a pair of knobbly knees.

"What changed your mind?" he asks. Looking at him now, I wonder – for about five seconds. His appearance never played a role, and for a good reason. Slim might be considered attractive, but he has only a few pounds on a skeleton. His eyes are all the more vivid, though, even shadowed with his internal Darkness as they are. Deep and ensnaring.

"Dumbledore," I tell him truthfully.

"What?!"

I smirk, realising that I have managed to predict one of his reactions correctly. He laughs incredulously.

"He gave me his blessing," I reply nonchalantly, stand up, take his hand and lead him back. He has not slept nearly enough and I will not allow him to nurture insomnia due to nightmares.

"Aha," he exclaims, perceptive now that his brain has had a meagre few hours of rest. "You told him that there was something that could improve the 'Light's' chances for victory but went against the school rules and he was all for it." How _does_ he do that? "No, really." He tugs on my sleeve, sitting down on the messed-up bed. I comply and sit next to him. "What changed your mind?"

There is no 'real' answer to that question. Maybe I just needed to be reminded of something, or maybe I have been annoyed by the 'Light' for so long that my patience with their antics has finally run out. It is far more likely that as long as it took me to acknowledge that I had _any_ feelings for him, it also took me to acknowledge that I do want him in my bed.

"I've never done this before," he states with a smile. I look at him with surprise – he cannot think that I would sleep with him _now_?

He chuckles. "I mean, I have never been in a relationship."

For a boy that is supposed to have the entire world at his feet, that is a dismal statistic.

"What did you do with all that fame?"

"Tried to avoid it?" he suggests. I suspect that the tragic reality is that he has had no time for romance – between saving the world, trying to stay alive and dodging rotten vegetables… Not to mention actually finding someone he could trust.

"That is the worst wasted fame I have ever heard of." He was never meant to be famous. He should have been the son of a clever mother and a proud father and the older brother of several siblings; average, unnoticed. Instead…

"I couldn't deal with that." He shakes his head. The smile is lost, but I do not really regret that loss. I like him more as he is now – serene, fatigued, _real_. "Dumbledore took a child who believed himself a freak and made him into a freak. I was like an exhibit in a Zoo. After a while I just resigned myself to it and concentrated on keeping everyone alive…"

"You are not a freak. You are… _special_." He mirrors my grimace at the word.

"Hermione is special. Tonks is special. I'm just… They should have chosen someone better to be the Boy Who Lived."

I have to object to that. He should feel a disassociation from the personage created by media.

"The 'Boy Who Lived' is not someone; it is _something_."

"I had hoped not to be degraded _that_ far." He is so incredibly difficult to hold a conversation with. Challenging, though. Somewhat like me, perhaps, but where my remarks are cutting towards everyone else, his are directed at himself. He is more intelligent than most people suspect, but all that wit, with an addition of twisted black virulence, is spent on disparaging himself.

I want him to stop doing it – or, at the very least, stop believing what he says.

"You are Harry Potter. A person. Not a thing. Not a freak. Not any number of other insulting epithets." Except stupid child, idiot, moron, dunderhead, brat and Gryffindor. He will probably not escape those if we are to proceed with this. There must be a rift between us staged for the public. When people observe our interaction, a sexual relationship must be the last thing on their mind.

He rises and stands in front of me, effectively recapturing my attention. Planning can be left for later.

"Truth is a matter of perception, Severus. While you may see me like that, virtually no one else does."

"I do not care about everyone else." Which, I dare say, is obvious. I care about him, and for him I am willing to voice all sorts of absurd sentiments. "I want _you_ to see and treat yourself with respect. If I can do it, you can do it, too." He cracks a little, shy smile, and leans down to place a kiss on my temple. It feels the tiniest bit like patronising, but I allow it, since the next one is initiated by me, directly on his mouth, and grows into full-on osculation. His previous experience is noticeable; he moves with the self-confidence of someone who simply knows that he can do whatever he chooses to do.

When we part, his eyes are somewhat lighter, as if few of the shadows fled from them for a moment, giving him back a bit of his innocence… it is an illusion, but a mesmerising one. I know that behind those jade eyes is a jaded mind, otherwise I could never touch him like this. Even if I did not realise it very well, his next statement would have reminded me.

"I don't want to disappoint you." Why must he be so self-conscious? Why does it make me want to protect him? It looks so deplorable, but he is anything but. How could he disappoint me?

"You do not owe me anything."

"Don't I?" he asks sadly. It was not supposed to make him sad. It was supposed to make him feel better about not being perfect; to ease his guilt or whatever is plaguing him now. He brushes my cheek with his knuckles, a gesture too mature for someone of his years, walks around me and sits on his haunches on the bed, just behind me. Were he anyone else, I would feel threatened right now, but Harry… Harry would sooner die than hurt me; I know that, even though I do not and never will fully deserve it.

"But I… If I don't owe you anything, then it means that you don't owe me anything either."

Merlin knows I do not want to owe him anything. This is all a mistake, but the greatest and sweetest and most wonderful mistake I have ever made. I am so ashamed of myself for giving in to him, but I could not – nobody could – resist him.

"That would mean there is no us, nothing… But there _is_ a bond between us…" he whispers, resting his forehead against the back of my neck. The tip of his nose touches my _vertebra prominens_. "It's not clearly defined, but you… Severus, don't tell me I don't owe you anything. I owe you too much to say in words."

His warm palms cup my shoulders, thumbs gently stroking the flesh over my shoulder blades. I have not been this close to anyone since Regulus' death… and I do not think I ever _felt_ this close to anyone.

x

I have slept in the same bed with another person for the first time in more than seventeen years. It was not due to any necessity – it happened simply because we both wished it. The fact that nothing of carnal nature transpired does not make it any less a reason for me to consider Harry and I lovers.

I woke up way too early because he thought it prudent to push his ice-cold feet against me, but I did away with that problem with a Warming Charm and decided that there are just some things that will make me exercise more patience than what I am used to.

The week drags on and I ignore Harry in Potions classes and when I happen upon him in corridors, but it is a mere precursor of the increasingly worsening antagonism to come gradually over the span of the next few weeks. He takes to it with Slytherin-like ease, giving me a cold shoulder and even letting out a disparaging remark about me once I am supposedly out of earshot. Granger attempts to chastise him, but her words fall on seemingly deaf ears. It is going to be worse. By March, we will easily be back to our routine from the former years.

Behind closed doors of my quarters he initiates physical contact, although he is, thankfully, far from clingy. I have the feeling that he does not know what I expect from him and does not want to push me past my limit of endurance.

When on Friday evening he does not mention his plans for the weekend, I feel it prudent to ask.

"Are you going out tomorrow?"

"Yes." He does not try to hide it from me, although it is obvious that, just like the last time, he wishes me to stay behind and wait for his return, no matter that the fear is crushing me.

"I want to-"

"Not this time."

It is once again a definitive answer, disallowing arguments. I understand all the reasons, but it does not make it one fucking bit easier. I surmise that he has his information from the Malfoy house elves, but it still does not give me any idea as to where he is going and what he might face there.

"Will the Dark Lord be present?"

Harry sneers viciously. He looks rather ugly like this – it is like a visible warning that these dark, dangerous emotions are capable of twisting him inside.

"I sure hope so."

The hatred disperses quickly and within seconds we are simply staring at each other, eyes locked in silent conversation that conveys nothing. I remember what Garton said to me: 'If you want your fuck to remember him by, you should move fast.' It sounded crass then and it does now, as well, like a forceful attempt to denigrate the admittedly illicit affair we are starting here, but it still sounds better to me than sugary professions of love.

"Come with me," I practically order him. He barely hesitates before climbing to his feet and following me to the bedroom. I push him onto the bed and lean over him. Our mouths join and, after the initial surprise, he does all he can to keep me closer, reach more of me, _retain_ more of me.

He becomes aroused quickly, but does not succumb to the desire, rather pulls slightly away, as much as the mattress under his back allows him to.

"Off," he states simply. My confusion and inclination to hurtful anger at the brush-off must become apparent quickly, because he kisses me lightly to stop me from speaking and adds: "We're not doing this half-way."

I derive perverse amusement from this – not many of my students have personalities strong enough to go against my wishes in anything, much less try to order me around. I have known for a long time that Harry had it in himself and, admittedly, I find him more attractive like this than if he simply submitted to me.

I give him the freedom of movement he has requested and he sits up and calmly sets to untying his shoes. I take off my outer robe and for a while watch him.

Harry Potter taking off his shirt is the second most suave thing I have ever seen. The first one is the Dark Lord killing – he slightly leans forward and draws, the movement coming from his shoulder rather than elbow, fingers gently yet unyieldingly enveloping the wooden shaft of his wand as it ascribes an arch, coming to a split-second halt when aimed precisely at the target before glowing green. The Dark Lord's grace has always been unearthly, terror-inducing. Harry is only marginally less frightening to those who see beyond the façade, though his danger is more human, more _real_. Tangible, in a way.

At the moment he looks like he was made for pulling off his shirt; the movement comes from his shoulder and the cotton slides over scarred skin, caressing the hard triceps I find myself staring at. Harry is still not particularly beautiful to me, but he is the most precious thing in the world.

The rest of the process of undressing holds no other such surprises, but I cannot find it in myself to be disappointed, since the single moment of the shirt-sleeve slithering down that upper arm replays over and over in front of my eyes.

The chill of the dungeon air on my stomach forces me to return to present. Harry stands about four steps away from me, naked but for a pair of boxers, looking at me quizzically. I feel nervous, although I am long past the stage of worrying that someone would find my body inadequate. He, it seems, feels similarly – there is a certain abashedness about him, yet he does not shy away or attempt to cover himself. I have seen his scars before, but it strikes me that I never quite appreciated them as being a mark of, apart from an abused child, a warrior.

His eyes are drawn to the inside of my right arm (not to the left one, to the much more prominent, starkly contrasting Dark Mark), where a set of parallel scars is the remainder of my recurring short cutting stints. He does not have such markings, to my slight surprise. From my elbow his gaze slides over my rather pronounced ribcage to the skewed cross drawn into the skin of my stomach with my father's shaving razor what feels like millennia ago, and then to my navel.

There I stop observing him in favour of divesting myself of my pants. I peripherally notice that he seems slightly startled to find that I take them off together with my underwear, not bothering to prolong the process due to some misplaced delusion of modesty. I suppose it might be a valid concern to wonder whether his physical appearance might disillusion me to the point of refusing him in the end, but it is far from rational – I have seen him in various stages of undress before and have yet to run away screaming. The situation is more likely to occur the other way around, but as far as I can see he is perfectly content with me being as I am.

A strange, strange man.

I do not bother waiting for him. He has already made up his mind. I take the remaining piece of cloth – which is inherited after someone with a longer waistline, but _everybody_ has a waistline longer than Harry – off of him and make to push him on the bed again, but he moves by himself and a few moments later we are tangled together and he uses his mouth and tongue to tease my nape and chest, leaving a trail of saliva behind.

I have almost forgotten what this was like. Not the mechanics, of course, I remember those well. I push Harry's knees apart and, not so suddenly, I am too close to him to notice all those irrelevant things, like that he is thin like a rake and looks frailer than a wraith and that those knees are way too knobbly… it is all just skin and body heat and the wet touch of his tongue where he licks my throat.

He endures the preparation in silence marked only by increased frequency of breathing, but when I finally enter him he whines – just a tiny noise of pain – and I feel privileged to hear it, because he never lets on what he is feeling. This small miracle of a human trusts me more than he trusts anyone or anything else. He has allegedly borne _Cruciatus_ without making a sound and here he is, allowing mere discomfort to pull such a reaction from him.

We are, to neither's surprise, both silent lovers. There are no words, no moans, not to mention screaming. When I hit his prostate he clutches at the blankets and lets his head fall back, mouth open, shaken with the intensity of the sensation, but it is his body I have to listen to for further instructions, not his voice.

He orgasms before me but does not just fall slack and wait for me to finish. He continues to push and kiss and scrape… I cum with a groan and he closes his arms around me, pulling me closer and giving me one last, grateful kiss before I start falling asleep.

For a man so young he is a startlingly accomplished lover.

x

It is early morning, about an hour before I had estimated he would wake up, but the nightmares plague him regardless of my presence. He raises his head slightly, so that he does not smother with his nose buried in the pillow, and sighs very quietly, unwilling to disturb me, not realising that I have been awake for a long while.

The tips of my fingers skim over the heart-shaped burn scar on his back, which I consider the ultimate oxymoron.

"How did you sustain this?" I whisper. My thumb traces the outline of the unnaturally symmetrical design. Harry shifts to his right side and lifts himself up on his elbow. The scar is gone from my sight, but I can feel the tissue under my palm, as I keep my arm around his chest.

"A cooking accident?" he asks, rather than replies. I choose to take it as a suggestion, but refuse to accept it as a truthful answer. The pair of aggravatingly piercing green eyes seems to implore me to let it go, but I have promised myself that I will not be blind to anything simply because it is inconvenient for me to see. His reluctance to speak of it proves that it is a problem and therefore needs a solution.

"Truly?"

He sighs and leans forward; his forehead rests against my chest. His voice is muffled as he speaks again.

"Might as well have been." He looks up apprehensively. "Does it bother you?"

Does it? Not as such – he has a number of scars and most of them are more disfiguring than that one. But there is something _behind_ it and that is what worries me. There was no curse on the wound – I am inclined to believe that the 'accident' happened while he was in the 'care' of his relatives – and I do not understand why Poppy did not heal it. With the right potion, I could still mend the skin.

"On some deeper level," I answer eventually.

"Then get rid of it," he replies decisively. Perhaps he was just waiting for someone to ask – for someone to take it off of his hands, to make it their responsibility? "I don't need it anymore. What it symbolised to me is dead – the threat is gone and the reminder unnecessary."

So I was right… This is one of the skeletons in his closet… I run my hand through his hair, smirking slightly when I notice that no matter what he has done with or to it, it remains always the same. Even _in_ bed he retains his just-out-of-bed look.

"I will," I promise him. He smiles, no longer dazzlingly as he would have in the past years, but calmly, with appreciation greater than any radiance of beaming could ever convey. I think… perhaps…

I can spend the rest of my life with this Harry.


End file.
